A Fire led by Blades
by NanaGelva
Summary: As knives left his flesh gaping open, Fire was sent upon him and sparked his life again. Necessary revelations awaited him in the dark crypts of Winterfell. Jon Snow finally learns the truth of his parentage, his duties. Two remaining heads need to join for him to fulfill his mission as Protector of the Realm. Winter is coming and will perish with Fire and Blood. Implied RLJ
1. Revival by Fire

**SUMMARY** : As knives left his flesh gaping open, Fire was sent upon him and sparked his life again. Necessary revelations awaited him in the dark crypts of Winterfell. Jon Snow finally learns the truth and fights for his Duty.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own anything apart from the plot, every right goes to GRRM and maybe HBO if it goes away from the book canon. There is a quote from one of the books towards the end it's in italic.

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The first stab hit right in between his ribs. The cowards he came to call his Brothers by Duty didn't even have the courage to face him with their betrayal. Instead the knife lodged itself in his back signaling to the rest of his party made of « volunteers » that they could all attack him at the same time.

The title he was given, 'Lord Commander of the Night's Watch' died with the cuts gifted to him. His subordinates tore his title from him by mutiny and attempt at murder. And he, in turn, renounced his duty of guiding and protecting them by defending himself using the gift Joer Mormont, his respected predecessor, bestowed him with his dying breath. Longclaw slashed and tore the flesh from his old comrades.

He was one of the best swordsman, and maybe the best, of the current Night's Watch. None of them could compete with him individually. However, their number and the initial surprise worked against him. Where he gave them fatal or heavy wounds in a few movements of arm, they pierced his flesh in small but numerous cuts.

Jon could feel the slow rivulets of blood moving down his body like rivers of crimson life. His head slowly went light and his eyes crossed more with each exertion of muscles. He fought as much as he could. His moves became gradually sluggish and clumsy. He could feel the ever present cold of the North slipping like deadly snails in his bones and petrifying him even more. Death was approaching him like a shy and headstrong maiden: tentatively but forwardly.

After what seemed to him as both the longest and the shortest moment of his life, Jon finally knelt down and drifted face first towards the frozen ground of the Long Night. Some of his ancient companions breathed out and even chuckled with the satisfaction of their final success over the powerful Jon Snow. They were probably relieved they could escape with at least the hope of surviving if their injuries were treated right and if the Others didn't attack them right away from the call of their loose blood.

Jon felt a hand grabbing his injured arm and turning him on the other side. His eyes could see the dark night looming over him. And even if his gaze was hazed by the blood loss he could discern the bright stars shining on him like watchful spirits waiting for him to join them. The sight wasn't much different than when he had the Night Duty on the top of the Wall or even when he would look up from the stables in Winterfell during the welcoming feast for the late King Robert, after all it wasn't a bastard's place to sit near the presence of his King.

It brought back memories of warmth, love and family. The guarded but gentle attitude of Sansa: torn between the duty to her mother and the caring she felt for a brother. The toothy smiles of baby Rickon that already hinted at the wolf's blood he would show if his direwolf's feral way was to be interpreted.

The curiosity in the eyes of the intelligent and brave Bran, he didn't even know if he even ever woke up from his long sleep after his fall. The wildness and loving of the unladylike Arya, always ready to play with a sword or shove you down and then run to make you chase her playfully.

The respect and the love his brother Robb held in his gaze while speaking with him showed he considered him as much a brother as he did Bran or Rickon, he missed their trainings in the yard with the wooden swords that made them worthy men. Even Lady Catlyn was remembered then, the hurt and unforgiveness she felt for what he represented warring with the gentle attentions of her motherly nature towards a child.

Though, what he remembered the most clearly at this moment right before his untimely death was the face of his late Lord Father, Eddard Stark. The stern but understanding face that guided him towards manhood, the time he always gave him along with advices even if he was only his bastard and not heir. He always cherished him the same way he did with any of his children. He respected his quiet nature and encouraged him to be the man he wanted. The smile and hug he bestowed him along with the key he wore around his neck as they parted ways out of Winterfell. The promise of answers he told him he would find in the crypts if he himself couldn't tell him.

His memories were shoved brutally aside when the Lady Melisandre hovered over him. He had forgotten that she came with them to better see in the fires without the presence of the Queen Selyse or the leering men ever watching her. Now, he could see she was the guide of the operation and again cursed himself for his stupidity. After all, she warned him that she could see daggers in the night, she just omitted to say that those were led by her own fire.

"You had to be sacrificed for the ultimate victory of the Lord of Light, Commander. He showed me that the fires will burn tenfold if the flames engulfed your body after a great grief. Your death will serve your King well, Jon Snow, be proud you were useful even in death." She said in a strong and convinced voice while wearing a satisfied yet serious smile.

At that instant, he understood that they wouldn't even wait for him to succumb to Death to throw him in the funeral pyre. Instead he would be burned alive to serve her Red God. At least he felt a little bit grateful amidst all his sorrow that his body wouldn't be desecrated by the power of the Others. His Death will be final and clean cut.

"Let the spark engulf him Crow." Her sultry voice said.

And he felt heat take over the frost on his black furs. The leathers he wore melted against his skin. His garments slowly left his body. The Valyrian steel of his gifted bastard sword heated like the liquid fire in the mountains.

Yet, Jon Snow felt nothing. The pyre didn't burn. His skin didn't crack and his hair didn't fizzle. None of the awaited pain form a fire did appear as he was burned alive.

Instead he felt his cuts and wounds heal and the skin stitching back together. Instead of screaming in pain, Jon enjoyed the flames and almost moaned like he did with his late Ygritte. He never thought that the pleasure induced by pyre would be something as great as this, nor that anybody except a Red Priestess could experience it.. The fire awakened another one inside him that revived him instead of annihilating.

He could hear screams of terror and unbelief tearing the quietness of the Northern Night apart. However, none were his. His still living old comrades pissed themselves when his body regenerated instead of falling apart. They scurried back, away from what they thought was their victory against a younger man that held too much power to their taste.

Lady Melisandre, could be heard laughing at loud at the change of tide. It appears she is satisfied with the new events. No doubt seeing it as the will of her Lord of Light she cherished so much.

Jon slowly stood back, still crowded by flames licking almost reassuringly at his skin. He wasn't fully conscious of his actions nor totally sane in the mind from the still previously lost blood. He felt as if in a far away dream, not unlike those he regularly had while seeing through Ghost or those where he first flied through the air and then suffered in the damp dark. Confusion was his general mindset and he couldn't even fight against himself to rationalize through the events.

However, in the future when he will think back at the changing event he would acknowledge that what he did was purely made of other Powers. Those that Old Nan spoke tirelessly about when the story she told wasn't about White Walkers, or mythical creatures coming to eat restless children. He guessed if those first existed as he has seen them himself, other things potentially could too.

He threw flames like a whip at his betrayers and let them burn to ashes. Blood fled from their bodies and sizzled in the Fire. Screams could be heard through the clearing they led him through for his murder. Some of them tried to get the garments they had away from their skin, at the risk of freezing. It was pointless. Those weren't mere flames, power emanating from his own core coursed through them. He could feel them as well as any other of his appendages, and control them just as much.

Unknowingly, he called to him at the start of their fight his direwolf Ghost. He could see from his eyes the sight of what foolish men would call a battle. He stood there calmly but with fury in his eyes. The fury transcended into the torrid whips and burned the remaining Crows with the price of their betrayal. Ghost approached as silently as his name hinted at, towards the Red Sorceress.

As the suffering men boiled at his feet, he walked slowly towards the only woman present. He could see her studying him as if he was her own God reincarnated. Wonderment and glee filled her eyes illuminated by the fire she set loose. He stood now a foot from her, undecided. She would only feel pleasured at dying from the hand of her Fire God, but he also couldn't let her die from the cold, who knew if her sorcery would live on in her Frozen Life? Letting her get back to the Wall wasn't even an option, she would be unpunished and would only set ablaze a torrent of problems for him.

It would be better to let the conspirators think he died, and the still loyal to be led to the conclusion their expedition had encountered problems.

The gleam of his wolf's bright red eyes detaching themselves from the whiteness of his pelt and the snow inspired him.

"Any last words, Red Woman?" He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of any title other than her repulsive nickname.

"None. I told you before that _I prayed for a glimpse of Azor Ahai, and that R'hollor only showed me Snow._ Maybe the message was simpler than what I thought after all, Jon Snow. My mission is almost complete, you are reborn and will fight against the Great Cold. Let me just give you a last gift my Lord. The dragon must have three heads, one is Wisdom, one is Care and one is Power. Only when the three become one the Other will succumb. Search for your remaining heads my King to let the Realm of Men live through the Long Night. I hope your endeavour will meet success for the sake of every living thing." She closed her eyes that became once again their normal color after gaining a red tinge during her prophecy.

Ghost chose that moment to tear her body apart. What once was a powerful tool against men led by desire and foolishness, now became a sea of red submerging the whiteness of the frozen grounds underneath her. Her red hair covered the area around her head and make her seem as a manifestation of the powerful sun in midst of the beginning of the Great Winter. She had nonetheless a smile gracing her features from seeing her dream take its first step into reality.

Jon set her body ablaze and watched as the Fire reclaimed one of his servants. As her limbs turned to ashes he inspected the other grey mounts gracing the soil of the cursed place. He couldn't feel anything right at this instant. He seemed empty from the inside and finally went to his knees from the exertion.

As he gradually slipped away to the land of Dreams, he could see through Ghost that the Direwolf carried him towards a small cave facing a great clearing of ice. As he went away from the creature and thought to himself that at least he could see if anybody tried to attack him, he felt a strange feeling of encompassing freedom and joy. He didn't know if those were entirely his own feelings but he could muse about them on the morrow when the entire situation would sink in too.

Jon lost himself to sleep and attached himself more firmly to his only remaining ally: Ghost.

* * *

As he woke up in the morning, none of the expected cold could be felt, only warmth. Inner fire. He opened his eyes and looked through the dark cave to assess any possible threat but found none.

When he walked outside to take a much needed piss, the sight he was met with was unexpected to say the least. A giant pale creature looked and approached him while the only thing Jon could say was:

"Fuck."

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Hope you liked it and would like to read the following chapters!

Please review to let me know your thoughts, suggestions, criticisms etc... It would really help to know your feelings on at least the beginning of the story.

Also if you see any grammatical or spelling error please point it out to me, the external outlook helps improve.

 _If anyone would like to beta, I'm open to suggestions._

 _Bye!_


	2. Escape to Shadows

**Disclaimer** : I don't own anything apart from the plot and any new element that is AU from canon. Every right goes to GRRM and HBO.

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Daenerys stood in front of the window in her personal rooms in the Great Pyramid of Meereen. She looked upon the Free City she conquered and now ruled. What was once the apotheosis of Slaver's Bay now was ridden of slavery. At least, that was what she wanted to see. However, centuries of customs and servitude couldn't disappear like light in the night.

The Sons of the Harpy reminded her of the unrest in the city. The displeasure they all felt, slavers and slaves, even for a brief instance, against the stranger, the woman with white hair, that came and upturned their system entirely. The nobles for their loss of power and treasures, and the poor for their confusion and hunger.

Because they were hungry. Some had profited of the loss of collars and made themselves free men and women that met success in their new ventures. But, for a lot of them, they had to now think about what they would do and not only obey to the instructions. Some were let loose in the crowded streets of the Great Meereen without any real skills or connections. They just didn't know what to do, how to do it or even if they could.

She was torn between the compassion and the duty of a ruler. Ideally it would form a perfect cohesion for a perfect ruler, but reality and history showed the multiple failures at such a thing. Some would say that her ruling of the Dothrakis trained her to be a Queen. But being a Khaleesi doesn't prepare for the rule of a City, and even less of an entire Realm.

The Dothrakis were a special bunch. They were Horse riders and had a nomad culture. They didn't have strict rules nor a rigid system. The strongest warriors were judged worthy of rule and not the wisest. They earned it with the spilling of blood. When she was only the Khaleesi to what was left of Drogo's Khalasar, they obeyed her because of loyalty, hope for the future and what they saw at the funeral pyre where her Dragons came to life.

Daenerys felt overwhelmed and lost. Doubt crept up in her mind. She didn't know how to rule such a city, she had to admit the painful truth, if only to herself. It seems now that she wouldn't be the perfect Queen for her lost Kingdom, like everyone tried to tell her.

The arrival of the intelligent Imp, Tyrion from House Lannister, only confirmed the whispers of doubt she didn't want to think too much about. His tongue was the sharpest and most truthful one she ever heard. But it was always on point. She was a Queen, thus everybody tried to accommodate her, but he didn't. He told her she would fail at being a good ruler if she stayed on the path she was right at that moment. He opened her eyes to the fact that the people of Westeros didn't wait for her.

All the common folk wanted was to survive under the rule of their Lords and the coming Winter. The kind Lords only worked for the survival of their territories and their families. Other Lords played political and waring games to further their status in the Seven Kingdoms or to defend their honor, avenge their dead.

None, however, prayed for her return if they didn't expect to win something from it.

A sigh escaped her as usual for the past days from the troubles brewing in her mind. The sound of knocking on her door and Missandei's sweet voice extracted her from her contemplation.

"My Queen, your Council is ready on the Chamber, they are waiting for your presence."

"Thank you Missandei." She walked out of her private chambers and went down to the room she designated for her personal council. As she entered, she could see everyone of them was there already arguing about something.

Ser Barristan sat more calmly, interjected only rarely but wore a frown on his aged face. Daario as usual annoyed everybody and loudly proclaimed his opinion. Grey Worm stood near the door and silently gazed upon the men fighting like children. Tyrion drank from his cup and replied to what he deemed stupid things as scathingly as usual.

They hushed gradually as they became aware of her presence coming to the end of the table. She sat down on her attributed chair and gazed upon each one of them calmly.

"Good morning. What seems to trouble you enough today to call me earlier than the convened time?"

"My Queen… your Dragons… They escaped during the early morning, around the first lights of dawn."

Her reaction was instant. Fury rolled off of her in waves that they could feel. Her violet eyes became as sharp as Valyrian steel.

"What?! How could they escape?! They were chained in a closed room without any light or possible exit! Tell me! How could they go from the prison I put them in?"

Her anger was palpable to every person present in the Council Chamber right at that moment. She had imprisoned them with heartbreak and tears she couldn't stop running down her face. Her sorrow at the memory was equaled only by the worry and anger she felt from the recent news. She didn't even let them answer her previous tirade filled with anger.

"Is it the work of someone? A conspirator? Did you find a burned body in their cellar? Where is Drogon?!"

"No, Your Grace, it seems that Viserion and Rhaegal grew more fierce and powerful than we expected. They broke the chains holding the collars themselves and torched the stone door before breaking it by force. Witnesses saw them heading towards the see and disappearing thanks to the pale light and mist of the early morning. Drogon, well..."

She interrupted Ser Barristan before he could continue after the short pause. "Where is my Drogon? Did he fly away from Meereen too?"

"No, but another farmer is waiting for you outside the hall with a blanket covered burden to hear him out."

She understood the underlying information. Drogon burned alive another person, probably a child from a nearby farming land. He was untamed and uncontrolled. She wouldn't have any subjects left soon if appeasement didn't come for her favourite child. She turned away from the table and looked through the window gazing at the see of Slaver's Bay.

"Collect any possible sighting of my dragons. I want to know where Viserion and Rhaegal are headed. Drogon is also a problem, but I don't have any solution for now."

Tyrion's grave and pleasant voice answered her after a brief silence from the entirety of her councilors. "My Queen, if I may… During my research many years back, I learned that two winding horns were used by the Dragonlords of Old Valyria to call their bonded Dragons to them. I don't know if their existence is true or not, nor what their bond really was, but I could search it further in the various libraries Essos can offer."

She turned towards him, and looked pleased at his suggestion. She felt a little grateful to Ser Jorah for the gift he gave her. The Imp truly became slowly important as a member of her Council. His intelligence and wisdom made her rationalize and question herself. He also brought knowledge that none of the other members could submit or even dream of owning. She smiled to the Lannister, he maybe was her salvation ironically.

"You have my permission. Everything you ask for will be answered and provided. Take a few Unsullied with you if travel is needed."

Without any further discussions, Daenerys left the Chambers and headed towards her courtroom to proceed the hearings. Worry, anger and content warred within the Khaleesi's mind as she thought about her precious children and the addition of Tyrion in her advisers group.

* * *

Rhaenys strolled through the dark hallways of her residence. The somber walls seemed to absorb any light like in every other house in the large city. The Shadowlands were true to their name, only shadows thrived in the Old Asshaï.

She walked determined by light footed to her destination: the Great Library. The Citadel of Oldtown was often rumored as the oldest and biggest center of knowledge. And it was. To an extent.

The days before the order of Maesters paced the halls of the sacred institution were one where knowledge of any kind could be researched, discussed and interesting. However the established new power restricted curiosity and wonderment to what they deemed appropriate. Everything was monitored, maesters in training were limited in the subjects they could study. Every knowledge about what they deemed sorcery and unlawful dwellings was destroyed as thoroughly as it could be. Some maesters tried to revolutionize things, develop new theories and answer further questions, but they were either squashed by the Elders or saw their golden collar taken from them.

Now the City of Shadows held or strove to acquire every bit of knowledge one could find on whatever the Maesters banned. They collected every book, parchment, object one could possibly study during their journeys out of the Shadowlands.

The Targaryen princess thrived in knowledge. She could remember early memories as a child where her father Rhaegar sat her on his reassuring lap and taught her how to read and write, or only read her a book he thought she would be interested in. It seemed she inherited her thirst of knowledge from him. The Targaryen blood was a powerful one and it guided her to Asshaï.

During the sack of King's Landing, the Spider, Varys exchanged her with a common girl resembling her as much as possible without any noble blood coursing through her body. For anybody that didn't see her regularly the lie would be believable. She was sad that one more person had to die prematurely, especially such a young pretty girl.

He tried to do the same for her baby brother Aegon, but he, unfortunately, inherited the frail and sickly nature of their poor mother Elia of Dorne. When the Rebellion neared its end, the infant was already dying more by each passing day. "Infancy sickness" she remembered the old Maester Pycelle saying. Varys had to leave her brother with her Lady Mother. Nothing could have saved them. She still mourned the death of her family and held deep regret she could pay them visits on their resting place.

The master of whispers paid a Tyroshi ship master to deposit her in Pentos to the manse of Master Illyrio. She remembers crying from the absence of her mama on the Narrow Sea, her tears melding with the saltiness of large water. As she arrived to the lavish House, none of the embellishment were registered in her mind. For months she left her bed and tears only occasionally.

When her one and ten nameday passed, Rhaenys began having dreams that told and showed her things no child should ever witness. Images of death reviving through the cold, icy spiders eating human flesh and dragons burning little farm children. As time went on, they became clearer, more frequent and sometimes were less important. When those "small dreams" as she called them, began becoming reality one after another, she realized that she had a gift.

She was afraid at first because she read in a book that those who were gifted were fated only to bring unhappiness and sorrow in a household. She couldn't wish that upon those that rescued and housed her for years.

She didn't tell anyone of her new found capacities and researched it silently in the times where she was unwatched. She read books upon books. In one of those, she discovered that Targaryen blood has already shown in past times its ability to foresee. It's what saved them from the Great Doom of Valyria.

One night in her dream she saw a somber picture of a city dwelling in shadows where knowledge will be the treasure she will find. She recognized it instantly from a card she studied during her time with the Elder at the Pentos Library. It was the great city living among shadows : Asshaï the Old.

Rhaenys figured out at that moment that she had to go. Her plan was simple and efficient. She used the name of her keeper and its influence to sail on a ship traveling to the east. The gold she collected was used to pay the captain and walk through the various Free Cities of the south of Essos.

Now, at twenty name days, Rhaenys was an established scholar that read books by hundreds.

As she was reading one of the newly added books she was interrupted by a dream, a vision.

Her body moved first by itself. She stood up and walked out of the Great Library. She went on the right towards the center of the city. Finally she reached her new destination. She stood in front of the biggest construction in the heart of the city and mentally asked to see the Supervisor for a request.

As she entered the room that opened for her she addressed in the native language the man in the shadows waiting for her to speak.

"Please prepare for Rhaegal, he will land soon on the Third Grey Tower. Daenerys will join us in three moons."

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Hope you all liked it and would still want to read the following chapters!

If you have any question, suggestion, criticism or would just like to tell me what you thought of it so far please let me know by reviewing!

As always feel free to point out any grammatical and spelling error, I don't have a beta for proof reading so it could be helpful!

Thank you and see you soon for the third installment!


	3. Mighty eyes

**Disclaimer :** Every right goes to GRRM and HBO for the wonderful thing that is ASOIF and GOT! I do not own anything apart from the plot and maybe some inventions.

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Jon stood frozen in front of the dragon. Because that is indeed what this magnificent creature seemed to be. His scales and thick leathery skin were made of the most creamy white color one could imagine. Gold and silvery lines that seemed like embroidery ran through the entirety of its visible body. It created shapes and refinery on the milky canvas that many men would love to admire endlessly.

The great horns sprouting from the top of its gigantic head looked like they were molded in a pool of pure gold, they gleamed in the frozen light of the North like fires bringing salvation. The same vivid golden sheen constituted the molten seas of his eyes. The orbs gazed at him appraisingly but unexpectedly he couldn't detect any particular danger aimed for him. His massive jaws opened slightly in a breath so warm it could heat the long nights on top of the Wall, letting him see the rows of black daggers he had for teeth.

He could observe that the dragon crouched even more in front of him to get near his face, but if it didn't Jon was sure he would be as tall as a house. His giant wings were flexed on the ground as if they were arms too. Claws of black stone decorated with golden ripples were so deadly it would easily cut a man in half with only a graze, sprouted from the giant appendages. Under his head a chain could be seen dangling from left to right slowly. The metallic gleam it led to was the proof this dragon had been collared and chained until recently.

A war rumbled in Jon, his emotions were contradictory. He felt worry like one akin to a mother's about her children for Ghost, he hoped that the direwolf he could already hear moving behind him wouldn't be put in danger by the mythical creature. Fear too. It was omnipresent. One couldn't stand in front of a giant white dragon and simply stare unemotionally.

Every part of the creature was made to be feared: gleaming sharp teeth, blade like claws, unnaturally piercing gold eyes, tall and pointed horns, massive jaws and torrid breath. Only a fool wouldn't feel the urge to at least squeak in fear.

However, Jon must be a somewhat of a fool, after all, Ygritte had indeed liked to tell him incessantly he knew nothing. Terror was there for sure. But, oddly, it wasn't consuming him whole, like one would expect. He thinks at that moment he had been more afraid the first time he encountered what seems now like only a mere wight.

It was as if he knew that while the dragon was fearsome, he wouldn't wound him. Danger rolled from the creature in powerful waves but it seemed to him that none was directed towards himself. It felt more like a warning to any other living thing in the frozen forest around them.

Jon slowly regained his composure. His breath calmed gradually to regularly powerful inhales and exhales. His racing heart gently slowed down when the initial terror passed away. The muscles and bones of his body gradually stopped clenching as if ready to bolt from the slightest movement of the white dragon. He straightened his spine in a nonthreatening motion. Finally he looked right in the unnaturally glowing golden eyes of the creature and set his face blank of any readable emotion.

All of a sudden, his arms and legs moved by foreign instinct. One of his hands grabbed the dagger he had fixed at his belt and slashed his right palm in a great slide letting his blood ooze from the wound.

His feet moved towards the dragon and when he was mere inches away from his gigantic head, he presented him his bleeding hand as if it was a precious gift only he could have.

Jon looked down, confused about the actions he just did. It felt like another entity, an ages old knowledge invaded him and made him move unknowingly.

His hand was still held in the air by an unseen force while the dragon appraised him silently. His snout approached the bleeding part of his body and sniffed it like it was a piece of meat. Maybe his ancestors made him cut his hand to die like he should have the previous night. What irony.

Suddenly, a mighty deafening roar was let loose from the great throat of the creature. Jon rationally would say if ever asked, that no dragon roar could be anything but a warning or expression of anger, but deep inside he couldn't feel any malign intent coming from him.

What happened next was something the "bastard of Winterfell" never would have expected. As everything else that has happened since he was betrayed by his brothers in arms the previous evening. The dragon licked his blood with its raspy and torrid tongue, a warmth so mighty that he could already feel the wound mending itself from the heat melting the sore skin. Next, he lowered his magnificent head until his snout touched the melting frozen ground, in a gesture of deference and subjection.

When he raised his head again, Jon could see that a connection was made and that the dragon was as much of a mindless beast as his intelligent direwolf Ghost. Which meant not at all. Feelings and reason could be read in the golden eyes. Next, the dragon mirrored his previous actions thanks to his sharp teeth piercing the thick and otherwise impenetrable skin of his right paw.

He guessed he should have felt disgusted by drinking a dragon's blood but the action seemed as natural and full of ancient instinct as his own self cutting. The dark red blood was so hot it almost burned the entire course it ran: from the mouth, passing down the throat, to the empty bowels of his gut. He knelt down in front of the mighty beast and lowered his head too.

As he tried to stand again, a surge of Power invaded his body and mind. His senses went erratic, his breath and pulse were never higher than at this instant. The nerves in his entire body sizzled and contracted painfully in a rapid tempo. The very core of his bones seemed to shatter from the inside and felt eroded as if they were exchanged with Old Maester Aemon's. His muscles seemed to liquefy and become useless chunks of meat. His legs couldn't support him anymore and he lied down on the cool soil in the same position as the previous night when blood was pooling around his almost lifeless body. His vision was crossed and his brain unresponsive.

His eyes closed swiftly again as if he didn't have a full night of respite mere moments ago and his mind went black.

* * *

Jon could still feel his body trying to regain normalcy after the powerful surge of foreign energy that had invaded him so brutally, that he fainted like an innocent maiden in front of her first cock. The state he was in was so indescribable it confused him, again. It seemed he really needed to get back what little intelligence he thought he perhaps one day had.

When wounds patterned his skin with gaping tender flesh and oozing blood during the fateful night, his mind was fuzzy and danced between consciousness and unconsciousness. Just as it did now. However, the previous time, it was due to shock, sorrow and loss of blood. Now that he had been healed from the numerous cuts, the deadly dance was even more questionable.

On the one hand, he felt like usual, well as much as it could be possible in the current circumstances, while recovering from the Power, in his own body, his eyes moving under his heavy lids. On the other hand, the very next moment, he saw his own body lying on the cold ground, being slowly moved by Ghost back to the cave he left earlier in the attempt to take a much needed piss.

The direwolf stopped at the entrance of the cave so that he wouldn't get too far away from the giant dragon that seemed to be dutifully guarding him, and protecting him from any creature of the Cold that was so common here, beyond the Wall.

The image of seeing his own self away from his eyes in itself was disturbing. But, what puzzled him the most was the strange visual. The precision of the details so much sharper and the colors varying saturation and tones becoming different. Also it seemed like they regularly changed. One instant he saw the entire scene in a multitude of greenish nuances, the next he and Ghost gleamed red like fires in the night, the surroundings a bluish white as if indicating the level of frost they contained; only small insects and animals living in the high trees punctuated the scenery with warm colors.

Then it brutally changed: the eyes he looked through shifted the aimed direction and gazed so far in the distance that Jon couldn't believe it possible. He saw the Wall, and a small garrison of Black Brothers heading towards the path he took with his ex companions the previous evening.

Furthermore, what also roused astonishment in him, which he didn't even believe possible anymore, was that the acuity of this new pair of eyes wasn't the only increased sense. He could smell a multitude of different odors: the strong wild scent of ferocity and blood lust for their enemies in Ghost, the insignificance of the critters and other small animals scurrying in the trees and small shrubs that could be found around, and also a foul stench reminding him of death and frost scattered on the entirety of the land nearby. Guess that last one could only mean that the presence of the Others was much more abundant in the proximity of the Wall than the Watch thought up until now.

The wind felt a lot more vivid and alive when it touches him than he ever recalled feeling in his life, not even when it was omnipresent on the peak of the gigantic wall of frozen stone the First Men had build. The frozen soil felt ambivalently alive and dead: the frost either killing or preserving what was in it.

It was unbelievable, the sounds he could hear. The scatters of prey running for their life, the slow crouch of the predators hunting their next meal, the soft rumble of a bear in its cave sleeping of the harshest of the cold time. His ears detected the powerful trot of a mounted horse in a long distance, the run of a small person crying in the frozen woods, and the solemn sounds and whispers of his Brothers.

No. Not anymore. Death relieved a sworn Crow from his careful watch. After such mutiny and betrayal, even if death hadn't claimed him for the shortest of moment he wouldn't consider them anymore his Brothers by Duty. They couldn't be trusted. At least not everyone in the Black Order. Poor realm of men, relying on thieves, rapists, murderers and mere children to protect them from the greatest threat against mankind.

All of the new information that could reach him now through the exacerbated senses caused an indomitable feeling of terror and panic to overpower his sanity.

This couldn't be possible! No man should ever experience this. It was impossible. Unnatural! He knew that the dead coming back was as unnatural and he did witness it, but he fought against it…

If he had been in his own carnal sheath, the air would have befallen him due to the collapse of his lungs. He was choking without even being in a body capable of it. None of the accrued senses were now registered as he was fear stricken…

" _Calm down, Jon. Hush the unreasonable fear. It will all be alright. You need not fear what is yours since the first breath you took. Power is yours to wield. Calm down..."_

The voice came out of nowhere. It seemed to be made of the smoothest silk wrapped around feminine hardness. It was low and almost had a raspy undertone, while still being seductive and soothing. He didn't know whom it belonged to, nor its intentions or even how the woman talked to him in his mind, but for now he would heed the advice and later mull over the consequences of listening to a ghostly voice. The slightly present accent it wielded with the spoken words helped him concentrate on the message. He couldn't concede to fear. The garrison was more important to uncover some much needed truths. He could further reason in due time. In his own body.

He dragged back his conscious to the sight he was offered and observed the troop of men carefully, trying to determine who was in the coup and who wasn't. Most of his now lost men wore a mixture of worry and determination on their grumpy faces. He assumed easily that while some were indeed genuinely concerned by his, the Fire Woman's and their brothers' disappearances, others probably were only anxious about the success rate of the planned murder on their young Lord Commander. Jon thought he saw some brief expressions of grief and culpability on a little few of the present crows. Those were the men he had already guessed would be against him, it wouldn't break the already established pattern: older members that disapproved entirely of his election as Lord Commander and the initiatives he took, such as allowing Wildlings in their midst to aid them in their fight against the Creatures of Winter, and thus undermining every one of his actions.

He saw them slowly getting nearer and nearer to the fatal place it occurred. If there had been any witness, it would probably be a remembered stone mark told to small children and studied by intellectuals in how the youngest Commander of the Night's Watch was betrayed by his own sworn brothers because he held compassion in him. And how the said young Crow rose from the cold hands of death as not an Undead Other, but as a Raging Fire.

As they reached the resting place of the garrison's and the Red Woman's ashes the men covered in black furs and leather looked frightfully at the small mounds of dark dust slowly being blown away grain by grain by the strong bone freezing winds north of the Wall.

The shapes of the monticules could only possibly be those of incinerated bodies. He heard many gulps of fear and sorrow as the watchmen realized what it meant. They were dead. After a few moments of mourning silence, a man spoke up.

"Ya think the wildlings burn'd the bods?" One of the crow asked. Probably one of the ancient thieves from the south judging by his lowborn manner of speech…

"Possibly. That is what I would have done, I wouldn't want the prowess of the Commander's sword against us for sure. But what wildlings are there still so close to the Wall? They are all either inside our forts or far away from the immediate proximity…" He recognized Arlan by the elaborate language and the slight accent from the Vale. The slight insinuation and intelligently introduction of his doubts also helped.

The man when he was a civilian had been assisting as per usual one of the smaller lords commanded by the Arryns, when the said lording saw his sister that came to deliver a letter, groped her with threats ushered in her ear and tried to rape her in front of her own brother. Arlan ended up killing him when the situation went out of hand and the arrogant male tried to cut his hand for interrupting him during "play time".

He was almost entirely sure that Arlan wasn't one of the conspirators. He spoke regularly with him, and the knowledgeable man understood the wisdom of the choice he had to make. What's more, he appreciated the ten years older Valeman for his sense of honor, worthy of a Stark.

"May be the Red Cunt made them all burn for her almighty God in the flames…" The mocking and anger could clearly be heard in the voice of a third man dressed in black.

Silence only met his supposition. Jon could see the older rangers that he suspected already shared frightened looks and silent whispers that even with the accrued hearing he couldn't hope to catch entirely. The only thing he decrypted was "the traitor", "think… he killed…" and "red whore!".

A smirk painted his lips. At least it could had he been in his own face. Nonetheless, it was a smirk of repressed anger and want for vengeance.

The man of the Night's Watch slowly recovered from their shock, and decided to retrieve everything they could from the remnants of their deceased brothers. Swords, furs and leathers along with pieces of gold and silver from the jewelry and pins were collected dutifully by the men. The gods only knew they needed it with the meager lives they had in Castleblack.

He could see as the group went back the way they came, that a few lingered to possibly see any evidence or sign. Some tried to find any little thing that could hopefully indicate that any of their comrades survived, or maybe the sign of a traitor and deserter. Others tried to find any possible proof that at least the aim of the conspiracy was a success.

Bitterness and pity melt together at the sight of their hateful faces shaking inside at the mere thought he actually killed them all. What a surprise it will be when he reveals himself in the future…

Jon could feel his mind slowly drifting away and liberating the host it burrowed for quite a bit of time now. The transition was odd, as he felt himself slowly changing and the capacities that went with each body moved accordingly.

Now, he could feel the reassuring yet confusing sense of his own human body. The tips of his fingers touching the cold stone he was laid on. The air shifting in his nostrils felt a tad cooler than before as well.

However, the harshest contrast was when he opened his eyes. The colors, the sharpness and the power of the previous eyes seemed like a mere memory or fantasy now. He could only see the smoothness of the polished stone, the frost attaching itself to it and the frozen moss trying to reach the slightly more comfortable end of the small cave.

He sat slowly and leaned against the cold wall supporting him. A forced big intake of breath and then exhale made him calm himself, and transition more into his real surroundings. As he let the light meet his pupils again, he observed silently the mighty white dragon laying at the entrance of the cave. His head slightly turned towards him, but still appraising the forest around them in search of an enemy to burn.

Jon quietly stood up and approached carefully the dragon. He could hear and sense Ghost following him with the eyes, the ever watchful direwolf always protecting his companion. The Northman knelt in front on the impressive head and slowly advanced his hand towards the thick skin between the closed eyes.

"It was you that shared your mind with mine, wasn't it?" Jon asked softly.

Slowly, the pale beast opened his golden pools and moved slightly forward with his snout to show the mere human it was acceptable to touch him.

As they skin connected, Jon could suddenly feel the throbbing link that attached him to the dragon. He could feel that it was pleased and complacent. No danger was in their vicinity. A slight hunger was present but he would hunt later with his bonded on his back.

"Viserion the Golden Ghost." The acknowledgment of his name pleased the dragon, especially the addition the white-haired female never found, he could feel it from the warm rumbled transmitting itself mentally in his own gut and the hazy feeling of a distant memory he couldn't recall.

The words left his mouth by themselves. No utterance of his felt as natural and fitting since he muttered Ghost's name the time he found him along with his litter and dying mother, Robb at his side. The bond he shared with his direwolf was exceptionally powerful, he barded into him regularly, had wolf dreams of the future and also shared the feral hunts in the forest in wolf skin.

He hadn't ever thought that it could possibly be found again, with the same strength with any living creature: beasts and humans alike.

He was proved wrong once again with the connection he instinctively secured with Viserion by the sharing of blood and mind. The bonds weren't different in their power, he felt as connected with the direwolf as the dragon, but the feelings the bonds evoked slightly varied from each other.

The wolf was more poised but feral, the dragon more prone to fury but reasonable. Similar but separated.

"You want me to become your rider, Great Viserion?" asked Jon.

The dragon responded by redressing itself and roaring joyfully. A small laugh escaped Jon's throat, and the feeling of the missed joy he hadn't felt for months, or years soothed the Man from the North of his sorrows and sadness.

He turned towards Ghost, the Silent, and pet his snow white head while gazing in his red piercing eyes. "Can you wait a few moments here boy? I promise to come back very soon."

The intelligent beast only sat down in the cave and sighed powerfully as if saying it would be a fine time to catch some sleep after watching over him for such a long while.

Jon chuckled lightly and kissed the top of his furry head while thanking the great white wolf. He turned back towards the opening of the stone and approached Viserion.

Slowly, he sat on the nape of his powerful neck and grabbed one of the protruding golden pikes. "Ready? Let's go Viserion!"

A cry full of enjoyment escaped him as the dragon slowly lifted up in the airs and began racing with the winds.

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I hope that you all enjoyed reading the third chapter of this fiction! If so stay tuned for the next update!

As always, if you have any question, critiscim, suggestion, a grammatical or spelling error to point out feel free to so by the way of a review! Maybe you would just like to tell me your thoughts on everything you read so far?

Thank you and see you soon!


	4. Roaring Wind

**Thanks to all the review, favorites and follows (even a community whoa!) for my story, I honestly didn't expect it!**

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own anything. Every right apart from the original plotline and maybe some new notions, goes to GRRM and HBO. Furthermore, if anybody knows the artist that made the new super cool image I found, and that goes perfectly with the general idea, could you please let me know so I can ask the person if it's ok to use it?

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Acceptance. Rhaenys was very much familiar and acquainted with that particular feeling. It is what comes after all the more heavy emotions: anger, sorrow, pain, terror… She had been introduced to it early in life after all, one would be surprised if she hadn't met it at least once..

The first time was when she understood that no family remained to her anymore, her brother she liked to play with in his crib has been murdered, her gentle father had been destroyed and his body dishonored, her uncontrollable grandfather bled out on the ground of his home and her loving mother was tortured and then killed.

She had heard in ushered murmurings the things that had happened to them. No one overtly talked about it but their whispers weren't quiet enough to show they wanted to protect the little girl she had been. They talked about the deceased King with contempt and satisfaction over his death. Then, they switched on the subject of her mother and baby brother and pity filled their tone.

Acceptance came back when she learned that no matter where she was, she would always be alone and a stranger to her companions. She didn't look like any person she met: she had white gold hair, deep amethyst eyes, tan and olive toned skin and had a small stature. She also accepted the fact that every new person she would ever meet in her life will stare at the scar she had on the face.

It began on her left cheek, just under her big eye, and ran down to her collarbone. The closed wound wasn't ghastly, the various maesters and healers from Essos saw to that particular matter over the years with numerous salves and rituals, it was healed, very pale and almost didn't pucker up from the rest of her smooth skin. However, it was displayed and plain to see to anybody with eyes. It didn't take any of her prettiness away, but it didn't meet the expectations of what a lady of her rightful status should look like anymore.

Acceptance came back after she feared for months about her gift. Yet another thing distinguishing her from the rest. She thought herself a monster, an unnatural being because of the teachings she was given. Now she saw that those stemmed from fear of the unknown and uncommon. However, those dreams saved her and probably a lot of other people too. It led her to Asshaï where she knew she would learn what was necessary for survival.

The feeling of acceptance isn't very unlike resignation in the perception of many a man. However, when being resigned signifies also to not have any hope or will to make something out of it, acceptance was just a necessary step. First, the cause of a peculiar pain, then tears and mourning, and, when pity against our own self has passed, at the end there is calming yourself, thinking back about it and accepting it was what it was, that you couldn't go back in time but only move forward and learn from it.

It was the only thing she could feel as she advanced in the perpetual twilight of the Shadowlands towards one of the highest towers visible even in the middle of the sea. Rationally, she was prepared to face Rhaegal. She knew since a dream showed her riding towards the dawn while fighting the night, that the green dragon was her mind sharer. She also knew that when he finally came to her it would mark the start of the greatest battle that ever was. The war between Life and Death personified would finally be declared.

However, rationality couldn't deter the anxiousness and fear she could feel bubbling in her. Terror gripped her ferociously at the thoughts traveling through her mind: blood, death, chaos… a dragon. Even though she dreamed and connected as much as possible while separated with Rhaegal, and knowing that he was real, nothing could really prepare her to hear his roar in the distance. The sound startled the entire city. People that were accustomed to various kinds of sorcery, blood magic and shadow baby killers felt dread at the cry of such a beast, she could see it on their faces as she walked through the unusually full streets of Asshaï.

She was a little thankful of their dread because it took the edge of her own fear, dulling the effect of suddenness and leaving only the cold fear. She could manage that. She knew it.

Slowly, she reached the side of the tower towards which her dragon was aiming for, and in a calm pace hiding the jumbled mess of her emotions, stepped on the staircase revolving around the millenniums old black building.

The tower shook when she was only midway on her path, as Rhaegal finally landed on the flat surface at the top. Rhaenys paused and closed her eyes to try and regain the modest composure she had obtained only moments ago. She couldn't let herself be weak. Humankind needed her. Westeros, and ultimately Essos when the White walkers learned how to use ships with their wights, needed her. Most importantly, Jon and Daenerys needed her.

 _She was a Targaryen. She was strong. She was a …_ the mantra repeated in her head incessantly allowing her a small modicum of rigid strength straitening her spine and focusing her mind on the purpose of her life.

The steps of the staircase once again passed one by one under her feet as she found a rhythm she knew wasn't one would qualify as courageous, but she still deemed it acceptable under the strenuous circumstances she was in. Now, only one single step separated her from the mystical creature. She regained her breath in the arch of the pike on the tower that lead to the flat top where he waited for her.

She set her shoulders straight and in a confident posture and advanced decidedly towards Rhaegal. Carefulness was of course needed if she wanted the dragon to remain as calm as she wanted herself to be. Still, even after stopping a few feet only in front of him, she hadn't really looked upon the dragon. If anybody else had been with her, it would have seemed as if she had, in fact, looked at him, only, she directed her vision slightly towards the side to avoid looking directly at the dragon before being at least acclimated to the knowledge he really was there just before her.

"Enough cowardice Rhaenys" she told herself and finally gazed upon the green creature in front of her.

At first she only saw a sea of green. The green of deep moss in dark forests meeting the precious jade found in faraway lands. Scales of every possible tones and nuances of the color fused into each other and formed the impression a hill of luxurious nature enjoying the winds.

With a second glance, rivers of bronze flowed sometimes across the green. The luxurious streaks sketched across his body a design of lines inter crossing and melting into each other. She could see the linings meeting on his belly, visible in his sitting position, and progressively fading into the dark obsidian already present there.

She rose her gaze upwards in a slow motion and observed his massive head. The eyes of the dragon were even more bright and luxurious in their glowing brightness than the bronze of the ceremonial plates in the rich faith among many in Asshaï where the pious sacrificed blood of any kind. It seemed the beast observed her too. She detected in his pools of rich bronze a considerable amount of intelligence that surprised even her, after all her studies on the particular subject.

He seemed calm and aware of who stood in front of him. However, she also knew through the brief glimpses he projected to her in the past, that while he could be the most reserved of his living companions, he was also the most cruel in some occasions. The untamed feral rage simmered in his otherwise poised eyes.

He had the means to back up his ferocity: bronze horns so long they could stab two men at once, sharp teeth gleaming in the muted light of the Shadows, claws so strong that in one swipe they had the means to cut a man in half. The strength of his flames was already exuding from his body in heated waves. They would burn hundreds if uncontrolled.

Instinct led her to advance her hand so boldly towards his strong jaws. He would be in control for their bonding. Rhaegal sniffed the skin presented to him and moved to let it get into his fiery mouth. One of his front teeth in a sudden and quick move, cut her palm in a painful slice and his tongue forked to the wounded flesh to pluck the red river from her outstretched hand. The cut swiftly began to heal when the meat mended from the heat of his tongue.

She regained her hand and let it fall at her side. Rhaenys stood unmoving, waiting, for a moment. A frown directed at him marred her features. She understood at that moment, that, unless she showed him she was worthy of him, he wouldn't complete the ritual of bonding.

"Rhaegal. Your turn has come to let your blood for me. You may be stronger dragon, but I will not concede to you." She paused, to see if he would heed her words, after her calm and determined speech. After a silence void of any action, her voice rose more powerful and commanding, worthy of a true Targaryen. "Give me your blood!"

Finally, after a brief contemplation from him, he rose his right wing and bit deeply in a fleshy part. Nonetheless, he didn't offer her the appendage. It seemed a final move had to be made.

A single step, and she grabbed the strong leathery skin with all the force she had, and approached the wound oozing with the darkest red blood she had ever seen. She gulped the liquid immediately after putting her mouth on him.

As it ran down the inside of her body, she could feel the power of dragon blood she always had inside her molding with the blood of her dragon that burned her insides mercilessly. But no pain could be felt, only a bond.

Slowly she extracted herself from the source she sipped for a long while, and looked into the melted bronze of Rhaegal's eyes unwaveringly, as if daring him to rebuke her claim. He only lowered his head in a small movement to acknowledge the connection they shared from now until the rest of their days.

Rhaenys softly extended her cut hand to his head and at last caressed him as a bonded should. She smiled when he closed his eyes and rumbled quietly because of the small attention. After a moment spent sharing their new found joy and passing their feelings of completion to the other through their shared mind, she stepped back and went to his side. Her hand enclosed his left horn with a gentle grip as she prudently, not wanting to hurt him, made to sit on the nape of his neck where no protruding bigger scale could be felt.

He understood her aim and lowered his head a little to ease their first ride, both were unaccustomed to the particular experience. As she sat on him, she contemplated giving him orders or letting him decide the moment of their departure.

"Fly for me, Rhaegal the Wild." she whispered in his ear.

A mighty roar escaped him as he began flapping his wings to get altitude. She could feel the satisfaction he had of finally finding a rider worthy of him, commanding but respectful, and showing her what he was capable of. Meanwhile, Rhaenys could only gape in admiration at the feeling of being in the airs, flying over the great City in the Shadowlands and feeling the wind caressing her cheeks softly. A smile broke on her face like it hadn't in a very long time.

* * *

Jon couldn't believe he accomplished one of the wildest and grandest dreams of mankind in its entirety: he flew!

Wind clawed at the sensible skin of his body. When the mutinous Crows put fire at him, he remained, however, most of his garments hadn't. The only pieces of clothing he wore on himself were those that he managed to somehow salvage from the fires on his own body and those of his old companions. The sizes didn't fit him correctly, either from the stature of the previous owner or from the heat of the fire scrunching the materials and reducing their size. He could feel the bite of the frozen air of the North biting at various places on his legs, arms, torso, back and mostly on the neck and face.

However, he didn't complain. The utter joy at looping and soaring through the sky and riding a fucking dragon couldn't be described, even if he wanted to. It was like the completion of a hard journey through the mountains when you finally reached the very top. Or even like the biggest accomplishment he could ever imagine. Never had Jon felt such elation as when he experienced the land of birds. Not even cumming in Ygritte's cunt released something as magnificent in him as this.

Feeling Viserion under him, providing him with warmth through his scales and contentment through his mind only helped accentuating the light-headedness. He discerned joy in the dragon and smiled.

Unfortunately, Jon should have expected that the moment couldn't extend any longer, he should have known that smiling that much in those troubled time couldn't have possibly continued. As he had shared once again his mind with the creature, the acute vision he provided him with saw things a simple man eye couldn't hope to ever see.

In the distance he saw a group of wildlings attacking a encampment exclusively made of women and children. A pang wounded his heart when he realized it was too late. The last child was about to be killed by a man holding a sturdy sparrow and crying unexpected tears when the blade sank into the little boy's heart. The adult knelt in front of the corpse and embraced him briefly before grabbing it and placing it at the already lit massive funeral pyre. Some of the men threw themselves in it too after plunging a dagger through their own guts, the crying man included. Jon then, understood that those were families, giving themselves one last act of desperation and mercy by killing their own and burning the dead. They didn't want to succumb to Others and then be a slave to Eternal Death.

He saw the reason they decided to act: three groups of undead raced towards the smell of living flesh, encircling the settlement all around. Jon could see the wights running unnaturally fast and without any purpose other than devouring breathing men, Others sitting on their frozen horses of massive stature or just leading calmly at foot the raised again dead.

Then, he saw that the location wasn't very far from the cave they left Ghost in and in a split moment a decision has been made. He knew that the call of blood from mystical creatures was almost as strong as that of men from Old Nan's become truths stories, and that his direwolf would be greatly outnumbered. It only left one thing to do: burn them all to ashes.

Viserion understood the intention of his rider without any needed word from Jon. The dragon roared as he flew towards the groups of Others. After a few seconds they reached the one nearer to them. Jon could see that the wights didn't even react other than screeching at the creature when their masters gave them the order to attack. Those masters had just looked cold and inexpressive at the sight of a white dragon dominating the airs.

The beast didn't wait for a signal from Jon, he sent white torching flames at the unnatural beings. Jon could smell the putrid smell of the undead melting, it was the perpetual cold that previously held the unpleasantness back, but at such a scale he guessed it couldn't be contained any more. The wights burned immediately, but the Walkers observed from the most part after retreating slightly from the hecatomb. Jon didn't let them get away as he showed Viserion through their shared minds that they couldn't let them go and regroup with the remaining groups.

After they killed all the beings they could see, they repeated the process on the other two batches. Even if all weren't destroyed, it already cut down a substantial amount from the future battles.

As they meant to leave and began their flying travel to the cave, Jon saw briefly a small troop of mounted frozen horses with White Walkers. One in particular, the apparent leader, unnerved him, he looked at Jon with contemplation. In previous occasions he only read unresponsiveness on their frost filled faces. But that one had a reasoning mind and obviously used it to coordinate attacks. That piece of information had been missing, but now he knew that mankind couldn't merely assume anymore on the matters of eternal Cold. He wanted to go and abolish those too, but saw that Ghost exited from his resting place and crouched, growling at a hidden enemy.

Quickly, the furry companion being more important, they hightailed to the cave and burned right on time a small group of wights trying to jump on the direwolf and overpower him.

He got back on the firm soil after dismounting Viserion and petting him briefly for his good work. Ghost approached them and nuzzled him softly to reassure himself of his well being. Jon knelt and encircled his arms around the giant wolf's head.

"Don't worry about me old friend, Viserion protected me." he relieved Ghost of his worries. He stayed there hugging his remaining living memory of Winterfell while caressing with one hand the cream scales of his new ally.

As he was about to stand up, the key he perpetually wore around his neck no matter the circumstances, jiggled and perked his attention. This was another memory of happier times and a token for a made promise.

"Let's go home now.." he murmured.

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Hope you still like it you all and are kept interested by the story!

As usual, if there is some question, criticism, a grammar or spelling error you would like to point out, or even just an impression please share it with me by reviewing so that I can see it!

See you soon with the next update!


	5. Journeys

**Sorry everybody!** I won't write a novel about excuses etc… I just wanted to apologize for the delay in updates! I was really sick these past few days and let's just say that fevers don't really get along with computers! I hope you will like the new chapter!

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own anything apart from the plot and every few original notions and ideas. Everything goes to GRRM for his wicked mind and HBO for their awesome adaptation.

Also I have a question in passing, if you could answer it by review or pm so I could see: is my summary bad? Because I feel like it is and that it doesn't really give any want to read the story… And I'm not really gifted for summaries in general, so it doesn't help! Waiting to hear from you so that I could improve it, thanks!

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It has been a couple of weeks now, or maybe a little less, since Tyrion started his research about dragons and old dragonlords from Valyria. Unfortunately for him, and the queen consequently, he found only mere scraps of information in the Library of Meereen,. And it was rumored to be a great one … he knew that if he wanted to be thorough in his research he had to get away from the city of the Harpy. Old slaver families maybe had the good resources, but they surely wouldn't ever let a foreigner, a less than man as they like to call him behind his back, get access to them, even if it was under the queen's command. An other source, an other Library had to be combed through for him to succeed in his pursuit of forgotten knowledge.

He had decided to go to Volantis, instantly. The Queen had asked him why that city in particular, and his answer had been fairly simple and cutting: Volantis had been founded as the first outpost to the Valyrian Empire. It was most probably certain that they had at least a little on the subject of dragons and dragonlords.

After days on the sea where thankfully the conditions had been amenable if not luxurious (he had a bed in a tiny little chamber that reeked a little of piss and retch instead of rat infested merchandise in the bottom of the boat like on his way to Essos), he finally reached the Old Free City of Volantis. He had to admit that the famed oval Black Wall and the Long Bridge both made of fused stone by dragonfire was a sight to behold as he entered the Harbor of Volantis.

Tyrion Lannister was a man that greatly appreciated art and beauty… unlike most of the stupid men from Westeros, and it was only right to say that those Valyrians certainly knew how to build and show off to any possible visitor. The glimmer of the blue water reflecting on the polished stone only added to his fascination as he gazed at the centuries old memorials of Valyria's power.

As he descended from the ship he had been cramped in for too long a time to his taste, he was greeted by an envoy of one of the current ruling triarchs: Doniphos Paenymion. Just as he expected.

Tyrion didn't just decide to go to Volantis on a simple whim. He wasn't that kind of man. Jaime often liked to repeat that he was the brains, where he himself had been the brawn and the bitch Cersei, the beauty. Maybe not with those particular words, he conceded. Unless the circumstances were so dire, or he hadn't the time to, Tyrion always liked to be prepared as much as possible. One doesn't survive as a hated Imp with Cersei and Tywin Lannister as relatives with only luck, or escape alive from the devil hole that is King's Landing without a great mind for machinations and perceptiveness.

He knew that going to Volantis in those times was very risky to say the least. The tiger triarch, from the military party, Malaquo Maegyr tries incessantly and without real results to suppress the R'hollor servants from crowning the Dragon Queen Daenerys, as some sort of reincarnation of their faith. Unfortunately for him, most of his men serve R'hollor too. That is without including the various plots of assassination he had in mind for her and all her associates.

Varys' birds did a good job. Not only with the tiger but also one of the elephants, the diplomats. Nyessos Vhassar was one of the triarch majority. The man based his fortune on the slave market and selling his power to the best bidder: Illyrio Mopatis, Yunkai… it didn't matter. Daenerys posed the biggest threat to the slavery business he had ever encountered, it was only natural he had plans to dispose of her. Those were secret and underhanded of course, but a well placed bird as a courtier or servant had its utility.

Among the ruling triarchs, only Doniphos wasn't hostile to the Queen of Meereen, or he just didn't express his hostility, who knew... He wasn't the most wealthy nor the most powerful triarch, but he was well liked, respected and a good diplomat. None could be reelected that many times without any skills, ant the man who was now in his sixties made his political debut in his late twenties. He was evidently the one Tyrion contacted.

Of course, the westerosi didn't expect his help to be free and offered without any compensation, he just didn't know the conditions yet. So, he wasn't surprised when the envoy that came to greet them at the harbor led him directly to the ruler's personal rooms in the Round House, where the triarchs executed their duties, officially.

The man didn't quite look like what Tyrion would have imagined an older powerful ruler of a Free City would. He did have the typical clothing: a burgundy cloth wrapped around his head to show his political inclinations, the jewelry and permanent drawings on his arms to show his wealth and knowledge, and the white and purple airy robes with the golden belt honoring their Valyrian heritage. What differentiated him from the picture Tyrion had in mind was his tall and proud stature standing straight but still remaining a humble air in his body language. His welcoming face, that had smiling lines and clear, almost transparent brown hazy eyes that somehow appeared nonthreatening only furthered his impression of a gentle soul.

The looks didn't make the man as he himself knew very well, but the Lannister Imp always knew that the look in someone's eyes was one of the first and most truthful signs to look for if one wanted to really have a thorough impression. He couldn't detect any ill attention, only careful examination and intelligence. He was glad to not be disappointed in that aspect.

"Welcome to Volantis, Lord Tyrion." His accent was strong but from lack of practicing, not unknowledge. "I hope your travel has been uneventful and supportable. Please, sit." He gestured with his hand towards the low cushioned seat at his right.

"Thank you, your Honor. It has been as pleasurable as one could expect on a merchant's ship. I thank you for your generosity and your welcome."

Doniphos smiled a little at the use of the correct term, and accepted his thanks silently with a nod of his head. Tyrion could see he observed him carefully. It was only fair, he guessed. A moment of mutual contemplation and assessment passed between the two men. It was clear that both knew why they were here, it was only a question of which approach would be the best with that particular interlocutor.

"Let us not exchange meaningless courtesies and words full of void, Lord Tyrion, I know you are a man that likes to cut to the essential matter. Your impatience and cunning can be read in your eyes and betrays you, I am afraid. Am I not right?"

Tyrion smiled ruefully at that, content that he wouldn't have to hold back. "You are not wrong, your Honor. Let us be truthful and direct. Thank you for allowing me to search through the Great Library, I have always been an avid reader and researching such an important subject for the Queen herself only makes me more glad to go through the great walls of such a place. I would imagine that according me such a privilege will not paint you kindly in the eyes of your fellow Triarchs. So, what I would like to know, Master Paenymion, is what will you get out of it?"

The old man smiled a little while rubbing his finger on his mouth in contemplation, then, he stood up from his golden stuffed low chair and walked to the grand open windows looking out to the vastness of the ancient city. He hummed silently and admired for a moment longer the populated streets, the energetic running children, the Great Market full of merchandise and people. As he sat back on his seat he replied.

"I respect the heritage of Volantis my Lord. It was made by dragonlords, it obeyed dragonlords and it mourned for the dragonlords' absence. Most of the Valyrians died through the Great Doom, only the Targaryens subsisted thanks to their gift of foresight…"

 _'Interesting…'_ Tyrion thought.

"… and escaped to other territories. Through my family, the old Valyrian religion has been passed on and vowed to. One could say that I represent the ancient Volantis. I could wish no ill to the reincarnation of Dragonlords in the person of the Queen Daenerys. Furthermore, I don't want my city burned by the dragons because of greed and fear men have for a woman. The dragon that passed over our heads some days ago was enough of a warning to me." He paused.

 _'A dragon? Which one?'_

The Volantene triarch continued after a moment. "The Queen has an ally in me. However, nothing comes without a price as you may know very well if your political prowess I heard about is accurate. I already have riches and power, it would be pointless to ask for that. My son is already married, and my line is continued, I have no need of future political unions. Few things I ask for. First, I would like the Queen to visit Volantis, people here worship dragonlords and deserve to see them flourish again, I understand if it isn't possible in soon times, but eventually it could be beneficial to the Queen. I won't be reelected once more, my time has ended in the Great Service, and continuing would only endanger me and mine… I want to be one of the Queen's personal advisers and subjects to serve her...

And, lastly, I wish that she let Volantis free. The Old City has been founded by Valyria, but I fear it is not prepared for the times of dragon's rule. The system isn't perfect, but it works. People don't live in despair nor famine. Slavery exists but cruelty is punished. My wish is that the Queen respects our traditions and status as a Free City.

I would like it if you could transmit my … recommendations, to the Queen. As a token of honor, I will lodge you and let the Library free of access. Is it amenable to you?"

Tyrion sat and thought out every possible outcome for a long moment of silence. Rudeness wasn't something he cared about if it lead to stupidity of actions.

"I cannot guarantee that the Queen will address every single demand, but I can say that I will do everything possible to make you meet her, or at least discuss it fully with her on your behalf. I respect your opinion and think that what you ask for is understandable and the mark of a worthy man. In the meantime, I would like to thank you for your hospitality."

Their meeting soon ended with a brief meal and sweet Volantene ale, and Doniphos led him towards his family's mansion on elephant. Never has Tyrion thought he would one day ride an elephant. They talked all the way through the city. Apparently, a dragon of light scales has been spotted through the skies going east some days ago, and either scared the populace or made them kneel on front of R'hollor's servant. Only one of them. No signs of Rhaegal. Tyrion sighed when he imagined Daenerys' reaction to the letter he just sent her.

* * *

 _« My beautiful baby boy, Jon… »_

The few words that were written on the sealed letter already broke his mind. The penmanship of the author indicated it could only be a woman. The elongated whirls, the curls of the letters and the elegance and airiness the writing shared with the reader were signs that couldn't be wrongly transmitted. A grace no man could ever hope to imitate. Furthermore, only those first few words of the first letter he had found were needed to identify the person as female. His mother…

He sat down heavily on the cold grounds of the crypts and raised his hands to his head. Even after the life he lived, the recent upheavals of his young life, heavy tears still managed to break away from the hold he tried to have on them. Sobs that he couldn't hope to contain broke through and left his sore throat.

And it could only be sore after inhaling the frigid cold air of the north on the back of a dragon. Jon had mounted Viserion and they flew, Ghost in his clutches when they passed over the Wall, towards the western end of the gigantic construction. They had passed over the empty and decrepit Shadow Tower and after a few miles deposited Ghost to the earth he belonged to. From there they just had to descend in a straight line to reach Winterfell.

They had flown at a moderate pace in order to not leave the direwolf behind and to better examine the current situation in the Northern Land. Still an entire day passed, the downside of being the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, he guessed.

Jon was disappointed by the sights of hungry and afraid people running from soldiers in one of the towns, or beggar children being spit on by the cruel Bolton men. Where were the true men from the north that would rather die than harm an innocent child? Were they that powerless in front of the traitors?

As he saw one of his father's bannerman's body hanging, flayed with only his face and cloak intact, the Stark banner still in his hand, from the wall of the fort watching over the Long Lake, he understood. Terror was a powerful way to make people obey.

It tore his heart when he realized that he couldn't do anything, for the moment. Unless he wanted to be found and the surprise effect to be taken away, he must beware and practice caution, constantly. Thankfully, the freezing wind made people stay inside as much as possible, and the falling snow concealed them further so nobody ringed the alarm at seeing a giant dragon flying over their heads.

As they reached the heart of the Wolfswood, Jon made Viserion carefully land in a cleared area. Just before landing he could see the First Keep protruding from the black burned mass that was the great castle and concluded that with a few hours of walk he would reach Winterfell.

Before going by foot alone, he decided to wait for Ghost and in the meantime try to find some food. The booty was meager with only a few roots for chewing and some nuts, but it was enough for the moment, he couldn't take the risk of making a fire and being spotted.

Not long after, he and Ghost departed, leaving Viserion to sleep and be on the look out for a sign of distress from him through their mind sharing. The trek through the wood was uneventful for the most part, only meeting some hungry wolves that bowed to the direwolf and avoiding a few drunken guards in the vicinity of the castle.

Jon knew that he couldn't barge in through the grand doors, he would be recognized immediately by his stark features. He had to take one of the secret passages they discovered as children with Robb, and later Arya. The entry of the tunnel was behind a great willow. It was a lot more cramped than what he remembered, and Ghost couldn't go through. He told him to wait at the outer exit of the kennels so that he could hear if he was needed.

After a long while of blindly kneeling and sweating in the paved way, Jon finally arrived near the kitchens, not far from the stairway leading down to the crypts. He only had to cross one corner of the inner grounds. Unfortunately for him, there was a lot of agitation and movement right at this time, just before dinner. He had to wait for the opportune moment to act.

In the meantime he observed the various runnings in the castle. Drunken men guarding the walls, archers raping the female servants out in the open, a soldier cutting a finger off one of the young stable boys and what seemed to be a young Bolton, judging by his clothing, grabbing a young crying Lady by the hair and making her walk behind him.

"Come my dear Arya, and stop your pitiful whining or I will fuck you so hard right in the middle of the yard that you will bleed!" his disgusting voice yelled.

 _'Arya?!"_

At the moment Jon was about to leap towards the couple the girl turned her head towards him letting her see her features more clearly. It was not Arya, but the poor Jeyne Pool. Sansa's childhood friend. Why was she taken for his sister? Their eyes met, even if he was still a little concealed in the shadows of the nook he had hidden into, and her eyes widened of surprise. Tears sprung up from the shame, he guessed, and helplessness he had witnessed. He only nodded to show her he would do something. He promised himself to try to help her when he could.

After a few more moments, the grounds finally cleared up and night descended fully on Winterfell. He moved swiftly towards the passage leading to the stairs of the crypts. His walk was vigilant, always on the look out for a guard, but luckily they were too drunk and overconfident to believe someone could infiltrate the castle they took.

The sound of his soles hitting the stone steps was muffled by the oppressive atmosphere, as if his ancestors tried to protect him themselves. The heavy door that in his memories always croaked a little when pushed didn't even make a shuffle when he opened it to get inside the dark cave. No torch inside. Thankfully, he had anticipated and grabbed one just before the entrance.

He stepped inside silently, respectful of the past Starks respite. With each step he looked at the faces of each statue, paid his respects and vowed each time more forcefully that Winterfell won't be lost eternally. A Stark will once again dwell in the great walls that Bran the Builder made for his descendants.

As he reached the last sculptures, he knelt in front of each, kissed the cold stone, and looked for a lock. He looked first around his grandfather's Rickard but none were found. The same result when searching around his uncle's Brandon statue. Finally, and he thought he should have guessed as much for the various times his father talked him about her, he found just aside his aunt Lyanna's sadly smiling portrait a small piece of metal that slid to reveal a lock.

He took off the key that hanged around his neck since the last time he saw Ned Stark, and kissed it gently, as if saying goodbye to covered truths. The key unlocked a small compartment where a beautiful wooden box was stored. The wood was dark and engraved with decorations.

It was when he opened it that his world was further shaken up. As if a dragon and reviving thanks to fire weren't enough.

Now, he admired the unopened letter that made him weep like a babe with only a few words. He knew that whatever he found out inside, it would completely change his entire life. If the great Ned Stark had to conceal the truth for so long, not even revealing it to the King, it could only mean that whatever it is it could only be of utmost importance.

After a few moments where he caressed gently the rich feel of the parchment, weighing down his options, and going through the rest of the box where he found jewels, rubies and various texts (mostly journals), he took firmly again the precious letter.

He couldn't push it further anymore. He broke the seal representing a crown and opened the letter.

 _"My baby boy,_

 _I hope that wherever you are, you are safe and healthy. It breaks my heart to write this to you instead of saying it to you as a young handsome man, but I feel my body already fading away to nothingness. If Ned respected his promise as I know he will for that is the man he is, you have been protected and kept away from numerous people. You will probably think you are his bastard, a Snow, or maybe Sand if he instead takes in consideration that you were born in Dorne. However, dear, it is not the truth of the matter..."_

Just as he was going to continue his read with tears coursing down his unshaven cheeks, he heard a call of "Intruder!" resonating just outside the door in the staircase. Guess someone saw his footprints thanks to the mud and the missing torch.

He quickly put back the letter in the wooden bow and shut it down. He grabbed the key and put the panel back in place to conceal the empty space. He knew that further down the crypts, there was a trapdoor made for aeration that he could use to escape. He smothered the fire of the torch with the lid and ran blindly in the dark to the end of the room.

 _'Viserion! Please, your sight!'_ He didn't know if the dragon heard him, so he repeated it like a psalm until his vision changed.

Suddenly, he could see in the dark just as clearly as in the peak of the day. He could hear the door he had shut down forcefully before, as he knew it was harder to open thanks to the uneven stone of the porch and ran even faster.

He could see the small forged door hanging a little open, as if someone forgot to close it entirely in their precipitation, and reached for it. It groaned a little as he widened the hole, but thankfully the guards still hadn't opened the great door. He quickly jumped inside and closed the door behind him. He crawled up towards the small exit just outside the smelling kennels.

As he reached the opening, he could see that the yard was agitated with running guards and the hounds all barked from fear. A guard stood a few feet to his right. He looked back to see if anybody was in the small passage with him, and then turned a little to reach his waistband.

He took in hand the small dagger he scavenged from one of his betrayers and opened suddenly the forged trapdoor. The sound startled the swaying man, probably one of the drunkards, and he didn't even have the time to react as the blade lodged itself in his throat. A gurgling sound was the only thing that escaped his throat.

He got out of the cramped space swiftly and closed the door. Prudently he approached the dead body and retook his dagger. Slowly, he made his way to the kennels, the box under his left arm.

The dogs still barked, covering the sounds of his steps. As he passed an empty box, a murmur made him jump slightly.

"I fed Ghost, Jon. I hope you will come back, take back the north for the true northerners."

He looked at the man that startled him so much and recognized Old Kriegson, the kennel master that taught them how to take care of their wolves and horses. He embraced the man swiftly.

"Thank you, old friend. I'm happy to see you well and alive. I promise. If there are others out there that share your opinion tell them soon. I will send Ghost in a few days with a message."

The old northerner with his great beard nodded. "Go! I will grant you some time."

Jon looked into his eyes once more, nodded and ran to the secret door that the hunters and kennel masters used when they didn't want to use the Hunter's Gate, and that he discovered during one of the feasts he escaped.

Ghost waited for him outside at the border of the trees so that they wouldn't take sight of him. Together, they ran through the Wolfswood as fast as possible, while he could hear guards yelling for him.

Fortunately, he knew those woods by heart, since Viserion's vision just left his eyes, and found some big rocks making a little space to hide in. Ghost hid himself in small shrubs covered in snow, melting with the whiteness of his pelt.

He guessed that the rest of the letter would be read elsewhere then since the light of the moon wouldn't be enough in the night he will spend in the woods.

 _Was he not Ned Stark's bastard?_

* * *

I hope that you all liked i!

As usual, if you have any question, recommendation, an error to point out,or just a feedback to communicate please feel free to do by reviewing so I could answer you!

See you soon (I promise!) with the new chapter!


	6. Writings

**Disclaimer:** I not own anything apart from the plot and my own creations. The universe of ASOIF is solely owned by GRRM, and the adaptation by HBO.

Good read!

* * *

 _« Your grace, the Queen,_

 _I am pleased to let you know that my journey and arrival to the great Volantis was uneventful for the most part. Only a few rats and pirates, nothing really troubling I reckon._

 _The venerable triarch Doniphos Paenymion has fetched for me immediately at the Harbor when the ship arrived. He currently hosts me graciously into his own ancestral home for the entire duration of me stay in the Old City._

 _We already discussed the terms for his help, immediately at our first meeting, I was glad for the direct approach to be honest with you, and to my mind, his price is very much correct. I feel, my Queen, that it will be much more safe if I do not transmit his message in this letter, in the case something unfortunate came to happen to our correspondence during its journey._

 _The Library is truly a sight to behold, as much as the entire city of Volantis, and has much potential for my quest. My research has only began but I already have collected more information that in the entirety of Meereen's accessible records. The time of my return will be dependent on the results of said reads, but I will apply myself to be as swift as possible for Your Grace._

 _On another matter, if the Spider's little birds didn't already transmit the information, I am pleased, my Queen, to let you know that one of your dragons has been spotted flying over Volantis a couple of days after their escape. I do not unfortunately have anything to say about Rhaegal._

 _Please remain well,_

 _Lord Tyrion Lannister."_

Ambivalent feelings surged in Daenerys when she finished the imp's letter she received only a few moments ago. She trusted the Lannister (what an irony indeed!) in the complicated matters of politics and diplomacy. She knew that she had much to learn about those subjects if she wanted to meet success as a Queen, and having such a brilliant and renowned mind to her service could only be beneficial. If he said the bargain was fair, it probably was.

However, she also knew that diplomacy and good relations with other political figures could sometimes be incompatible with her aspirations and ambitions as a Queen and conqueror.

She guessed she would have to wait for his return and listen to what Tyrion would have to pass on, to make the final decision about the Volantene's end of the bargain.

Also, the confirmation about Viserion's moves by a trusted adviser was very much welcome. She was completely aware that she couldn't trust Varys entirely, who knew what his agenda was, but she had to make concessions it seemed, because his network of spies, little birds as he called them, was very much useful in lots of situations. Information is key, it appeared. Nonetheless, she was worried and anxious. She paced in her solar from one and to another as questions marched succinctly through her head.

Where could Rhaegal be? If Viserion went west or towards the less populated north of Essos, where was he headed? And, the most important, why did they separate in different directions? Did they have specific locations to go to? Were they that cognizant?

If those two, who were the less rambunctious of her children, didn't stay together, she could really not imagine them reuniting with Drogon, who had always been the more problematic of them all.

The black dragon was the one that at the same time depended the most and the less on her. Her link with him was the strongest, but Drogon was recalcitrant. He was troubled and caused much trouble. But, at the same time, even if he was the most rebellious one, he was always tied to her. Often, Rhaegal and Viserion were aloof, ignored her or even tried to attack her if she attempted to make them obey to her, unlike their black sibling who after much repetition, in the end succumbed to her worded commands.

If the two, Viserion and Rhaegal, went away from her location, she knew, deep down, that Drogon stayed in the surroundings of Meereen. And, it warmed her heart in the same time that it worried her. An uncontrollable dragon was a heavy duty on the shoulder's of the small people in Meereen's environs.

She hoped that Tyrion's quest to find useful information on dragons and dragonlords in Volantis will be a success. Because she needed it direly. She had to understand them to control them and to make a good use of them in the coming war to retake her rightful throne. Or it would all be for naught, a Dragon Queen, Mother of Dragons she was called, without any children to listen to her.

Meanwhile, in Meereen, she still had to stabilize her power on the city. She knew that their victory a forenight before the Lannister's departure, in the attempted coup d'état by the Sons of the Harpy had a huge impact on the populace. It was much more subdued and frowning since then. The market emptier, the children sadder and the men angrier.

However, it did not stop the numerous attempts on her life.

Even if dozens of their numbers died in the attempt to kill her and her government in the grand Arena was a failure, thanks to her vigilant Unsullied and the timely action of Drogon's flames, the Sons still sent assassins for her and killed every one of her soldiers they could access.

She was conscious of the fact that unrelenting oppressiveness will not have a positive effect on the people of Meereen, but she still had to send organized patrolling troops every few hours through the streets in order to show that they could not make her fear them. She, and she only, was the new ruler of the city, she was their Queen. Even if it tore her heart apart to make people that relied on her suffer, she had to show strength through the use of violence to stop further spilling of blood and political insecurity.

A broken sigh escaped her lips from the unease and despair she felt. It was not only about the current situation of her city, which was dire indeed, but also from the dominating worry about the state of her precious children flying away from her. A mother always worries, she heard. She hoped they would remain safe and unharmed, and, mostly, that they would not cause too much trouble wherever they landed.

* * *

The bleak light of the morning sun woke Jon from his uncomfortable sleep in between the hard granites that concealed him for the night. He could feel and see the piles of snow amounting the high points of his face and body, covering the furs on his skin. It did not seem to him that feeling accustomed to not having the full sensation of the cold will come very soon. He was grateful that he would not die from frozen blood and cold bones, but he was still uncomfortable with the idea that some kind of fire burned in his own body, warming him from the inside.

Jon looked out of the mounts of stone slowly to assess any hostile presence, namely guards, here. He knew there must still be patrols, or at least a new batch of patrolmen coming with the dawn. Carefully, once he surmised no one was near, he climbed out difficultly of the hiding place he improvised the night before.

"Ghost!" he called in a mixture of a shout and a whisper. After a long moment where he thought the direwolf went away, he looked left as he heard a small branch cracking under the beast's weight. Relief surged through him at the sight of the white huge wolf holding in his jaws a pale rabbit. He had been worried when his faithful companion had not emerged from the bush he saw him lie in the previous evening.

Jon salivated at the sight of a fresh piece of meat. He hadn't eaten anything but hard roots and a meager amount of frozen fruit the day before, and after his adventures in Winterfell, hunger gnawed at his guts unrelentingly.

He decided to make his need wait and first reunite with Viserion in order to find a place to rest properly. Where they would be able to start a fire without a huge risk of discovery. He walked towards the west, using trees and stones they,his siblings and him, marked as rambunctious children to locate himself in the Wolfswood.

As he heard a small grunt coming from what could only be a giant animal, Jon surmised he did not lose his ability to travel through the dangerous forest even after the substantial time he was parted from Winterfell. Only a dragon could emit such a sound.

The sight of his white scales and golden horns appeased him. Made him feel safe. He approached gently and securely the dragon and slowly caressed his powerful snout. His other hand descended to the snow white pelt of his old friend.

The box he had safely guarded under his arm throughout his entire journey among the frozen leaves and trees, suddenly felt heavy to him. As if, when the feeling of safety came, it also brought the heaviness of the revelations that awaited him.

He knew that whatever would be revealed in his mother's letter he did not have the time to read entirely in the crypts, would have the effect of an earthquake on his life. Already knowing that Ned Stark was not, in fact, his blood, his father, put tears in his eyes and uncertainty in his heart.

Slowly, he detached himself from his two bonded beasts and decided that staying in the clearing would not remain safe for much longer.

He asked Viserion through their link if he could look out for a big enough cave or abandoned place in order for them to rest and eat. The dragon, to show his compliance, lowered slightly his head and moved it from left to right, in a full circle.

In a sudden movement he took flight and pushed through their connection the sight he had. Jon could see himself underneath, Ghost at his side, and then the dragon looked to the right, where in a few hundred feet he could see the entrance of a cave in the start of the nearest mountains, big enough to even host Viserion comfortably.

He nodded to the dragon in appreciation and told him gently to find a prey for himself. As he marched in the direction he had been showed, he saw the majestic beast fly over their heads and hunt for food.

The walk had been unhurried and careful. Jon did not want to fall in a guard's ambush in his haste for shelter and food. His feet on the frozen ground were soft and Ghost remained as silent as ever by his side. On the way, he grabbed some provisions such as winter berries and nuts to eat when the meat disappeared.

The opening of the natural cave was wide but not very high. He had to crouch a little bit to pass through the threshold without hitting himself. He went further down the cave and finally reached a wider room where traces of human occupation could be seen: polished rocks to rest on, engravings on the walls and a circle of stones where the fire was intended to be.

Jon put down the box and foods he had carried until then on one of the banks. He turned to Ghost and talked as though he had a human mind.

"Ghost, stay here and guard the treasure please. It is very important. I am going just outside to fetch wood for the pit."

And he did just that. As he came back, arms laden with pieces of wood he found on the grounds or took from dead trees, he saw Viserion was already there, sleeping after the feast he had no doubt swallowed just before.

He arranged a small mount of small wood in the ring of stones, and after a moment, wondered how to start the fire. There were no pieces dry enough to have a strong enough friction to create a spark. He looked at Viserion, smiled, and asked him to send fire to the prepared pyre.

Unfortunately for his clothing, he did not have the presence of mind to consider the strength and wideness of the dragonfire. The few furs he had patched up enough to cover his arms burned instantly.

He laughed after a moment of surprise, at the sight of the jarred clothes. It was not much of a trouble since he already had to find appropriate ones after his burned in his attempted funeral pyre. The laughter appeased the tensions that had been building up inside him. It released a wave of content through his nerves that calmed him immediately while a small smile came to rest on his lips.

The rabbit Ghost had killed for him had been succulent after cooking him on a spindle above the fire. He had skinned the carcass and carefully cut through the fur to use it in the future, after boiling it evidently. Smile always in place.

Satiety made him languish and sleepy. However, he resisted the call of his coming dreams and instead opened the problematic box to reach his mother's letter.

He grabbed it carefully, as if it would explode if not handled with care. The same caress he had done the day before was repeated on the rich parchment that moment. He contemplated for a long moment the wisdom of opening it.

In his mind, he could still backtrack. He could still remain the baseborn son of the great Eddard 'Ned' Stark. He could still remain part of the loving family he had grown up with. He could still remain the problem of Lady Stark.

But, he knew, in his heart and troubled conscience, none of those things could be. They were all dead. Betrayed. Tortured. Butchered. Burned. Injustice had been the prize for their honor and power.

Still, reading the letter would only be a confirmation that everything he had ever known would crumble just before him. His family. His home. His watch on the Wall that died with him when they betrayed him. Everything would be left in the ashes of dragonfire, and Jon was not sure if he was ready to face this.

After moments of contemplation, turning and petting the richness of the paper continuously, he decided that he could not cower in front of the truth. If he did, he would only dishonor them all. His brother Robb, his precious Arya, his father Ned. He would always consider him as that he had then decided, whatever the actual truth of his parentage may be. He raised him as his own, and he could not renounce him.

His mind made up, and barriers of memories put at the front of his thoughts, his fingers unrolled the letter and held the elegant cursive writing in front of him.

" _My baby boy,_

 _I hope that wherever you are, you are safe and healthy. It breaks my heart to write this to you instead of saying it to you as a young handsome man, but I feel my body already fading away to nothingness. If Ned respected his promise as I know he will, for that is the man he is, you have been protected and kept away from numerous people. You will probably think you are his bastard, a Snow, or maybe Sand if he instead takes in consideration that you were born in Dorne. However, dear, it is not the truth of the matter…_

 _I hope against all hope that Ned has prepared you for the truth, but I know in my heart and conscience that it shall probably not be the case. If he protects you, he can most certainly not tell you._

 _I am your mother. Lyanna Stark. Daughter of Lord Rickard and Lady Lyarra Stark, Wardens of the North. Sister to Brandon, Eddard and Benjen. Be assured that you remain as much of a Stark as you always thought you were, my little wolf. However, ice is not the only thing that flows through your veins my child. Fire is just as powerful in you._

 _You are not only Direwolf, you are also Dragon._

 _In you, runs the blood of kings. Kings of the North and Winter, and also Targaryen kings. Your father was the Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen._

 _Please do not make assumptions in your haste. I know that erroneous stories fly through the tongues of the Realm, the result of scheming evil minds, but the truth you will discover in the journals I left for you._

 _My little Jon, know that both of your parents loved you very much. Your father sang to you when you were still in the womb and I hope his gentle soul passed in you._

 _The forces of life are slowly living me, I fear. Please beware of danger. Many will seek to kill you, use you or manipulate you for the blood in your veins and your rightful claim to the throne. Protect yourself. Protect those you held dear to the full extent of your abilities. Do not cower in face of fear, make it your greatest source of power. Be courageous and honorable for Winter is Coming._

 _Make your own rules and be your own man. Do not let established ways and customs make a slave of you._

 _Do not be full of yourself, but have confidence. Do not obey blindly, but respect others. Treat everyone with the same regard: peasants, farmers, whores, beggars and lords are all your people._

 _Be safe my love. Live fully. Be wise. Make love, honor and strength the words of your life my son._

 _Your mother that loves you deeply and will remain by your side for ever,_

 _Lyanna Stark Targaryen."_

* * *

Hope that you all liked it!

As always if you have any question, recommendation, grammatical or spelling error to point out, or would just like to let me know your feelings on the story, please feel free to do so by reviewing. I always reply!

See you soon!


	7. Cave of change

_Hello everybody!_ I'm sorry for the delay, I did not have access to Internet for a few days so I could not upload the chapter beforehand... To apologize I'm delivering to you my longest chapter and it is 100% Jon snow concentrated! The next chapter is almost edited too, so do not worry it will arrive very soon!

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own anything apart from the plot, original characters, and some new notions and ideas. Every right goes to GRRM for the ASOIF world, and HBO for their great adaptation.

Good read!

* * *

Reading his mother's letter had the effect he had expected it would. It shattered him. Every possible scenario and theory he had made up about his mother during his youth and the lonely nights on the Wall were but a rumble of filth in front of the truth. He was a fucking Prince.

A bitter laugh escaped him at the thought. Four nights ago he was only the Honorable Ned Stark's baseborn son, a member of the Night's Watch and its Lord Commander. Now, he was the rightful heir to the throne : a Prince both from the Targaryen and the Stark side, released of its duty as a Crow and free to play the deadly game of thrones if he so wished to do.

However, that did not heal the wounds he had. His uncle has raised him as his own son, showing him unconditional love, protecting him against everything : the Lady Stark, the Baratheons… he educated him as much, and maybe even more than Robb (considering the lessons in High Valyrian, and Robb's reluctance to study more than he had to), in matters of strategy, warfare and politics, he trained him to be one of the best swordsman in the North. He would always remain his father in all but seed. The blood, he already shared.

But, without a mother's love, even his father's could not be enough. Seeing Lady Stark nurture and love tenderly each one of her children day after day cut him deeply more and more. He was only a bastard, the result of her husband's treason in her eyes, and he received cold gazes only. Disdainful words, avoidance and contempt. She hated him for what he represented and the threat he posed, in her mind, to her children. Rationally, he could understand, that to the standards of their world, she had even been kind compared to other highborn wives, but the feelings of a young boy could never be healed by rationality.

The absence of a warm touch, a soft voice singing lullabies, kisses full of love and adoration, the remarks made for his own good were things he had been missing dearly.

Now, reading this letter, Jon had been torn by the fact he knew without doubt, none of those things he will ever experience. He had hoped against hope that maybe his mother was still alive, hiding from him for whatever reason, and that still she loved him. It would have been hard to accept but he knew ultimately he would have forgiven everything with one gentle sweep of her hand against his cheek.

His mother did indeed love him but she was not present and alive in this world anymore. She had done everything to protect him, even made her brother promise to raise him as his own, but he would never have the opportunity to see the great beauty she was rumored to be, nor feel the affection of a mother's love.

Learning about his father, on the other hand, was a completely different and peculiar experience. He felt detached, he already had a father, the best one could ask for, and he would never forget him; and at the same time it also touched a deep part of him. Questions arose instantly when he thought about his real father.

Who was really the Crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen? Was the love they shared as great as it seemed to be? Did his father love him, or was he only the third child, a second Prince for the crown? Did Jon look a little like him? Or maybe, had he some shared characteristics in personalities?

Shock had coursed through him when he read the truth. But it also was muted. As if, subconsciously he was expecting it.

And somehow, he knew he did. He looked towards the entrance of the cave and saw Viserion lounging on the stone floor, serene but never completely unaware. How else would he be bonded to a fucking giant white dragon if dragon blood did not run through his veins? Ygritte seemed to be right again "You know nothing Jon Snow" she had said, and mostly it was true, but maybe he did not wish to learn. It makes reality harder to see the truth.

Fatigue invaded him further than satiety had already done. He was tired of thinking, troubling himself with matters as old as he was and he was tired of self pity. He could not and will not be a craven, he had to be brave, as his mother had said, embrace the hardships, because Winter is Coming. He had to make his family proud.

It did not stop, however, the few tears, remnants of his youth and vulnerability, to slide down his cheeks as he was falling asleep while embracing Ghost.

* * *

He woke up slowly with the morning peeking through the entrance of the cave, the direwolf gone from his side, the fire only embers struggling to keep the stone walls as warm as possible for its inhabitants.

Jon remained there next to the dying flames, brooding on everything he learned the day before. An image of him in the same position in his old bed in Winterfell reminded him that Robb would at that moment make fun of his silent and brooding tendencies, and Arya would simply poke him to death while screaming in his ear until he got up.

Thinking about his siblings (could he really for even a slight moment consider them as only cousins?) made his heart ache but also gave him strength to conquer the day.

He got out of the empty cave, alone, he did not know where his companions could be, and went to get some more wood. Valyrian steel was indeed as useful in chopping heads, as cutting barks of trees, he noted with a little amusement at the irony of the most dangerous metal in existence being used to cut simple wood. He made a few back and forth to the cave to make a small mount of wood that would last him for a few days.

His first task done, he went out again to scout the surroundings, learn perfectly the terrain, and picked whatever he could along the way to eat. He determined that the cave he had holed himself in was actually part of the beginnings of the northern mountains. Really, it was only, at first, a small mount which slowly evolved in the frozen stone the great mountains were know for.

The woods were generally dense with only a few sparse areas he saw some guards passing through. His steps had been silent and his breath calm. They had not detected him and he could observe them quietly.

Both wore the sigil of House Bolton, the flayed man, head on the bottom, body attached to a cross and a pink background representing flesh. They did not seem like really competent in battle skills but the way they held their swords indicated him, they still had some modicum of training. Reclaiming Winterfell will be harder than hoped, indeed, with trained men trying to keep it, but not impossible.

"Remind me again Arick, why are walking though those damn frozen bushes in this fucking cold like headless chicken?!" one of the guards snarled angrily.

"'parently some guy infiltrated and then escaped the castle. Ramsay is furious. The orders were to catch him and get him as alive as possible to him. Guess what he wants to do to him, hmm?" he smirked at the end.

"Ooouh. I love myself some flay on the cross. The bastard sure does have a talent to make them scream!" the first that had spoken laughed with mirth. "Remember what he did to the Greyjoy lad? No cock anymore. Now he's running around, calling himself Reek and obeying every single word the bastard says."

" _No Theon, Theon dead! Dead! Reek... Reek now, master!_ " the second one imitated and both laughed cruelly.

Jon was torn between part satisfaction that Theon suffered after his betrayal, and part horrified at the torture and cruelty he had gone through under the sick Bolton bastard. He had never really held the Greyjoy ward close to his heart, but still, they have grown up together, drank their wits out for first time all three of them together in the dark smelly cave under the kitchens, trained together in the yard and bruising themselves purple with wooden sticks until their whole body ached.

He waited in the hollow of a dead tree for them to go farther away, and slowly followed them. At the same time, he used the respite to regroup his emotions and regain his calm.

A few moments after, the two members of the patrolling crew separated and went away in two different directions, one towards Winterfell, the other deeper in the Wolfswood.

Some dozens of trees and a small pond of frozen water later, he felt Ghost not far from him, and a smirk adorned his face at the irony of the second guard's words before going for the castle "look out man, famished wolves are lurking in those fucking woods". He signaled discreetly silently to the direwolf to attack the lone man and kill him, he couldn't afford any loud sound, for the missing partner was not too far away.

He approached quietly the dying body of the Bolton scum, the throat missing a piece of flesh on the left side, blood pouring out, on the cold floor, of the torn artery and saw the Bolton's man's eyes widen as he spoke the motto of House Stark, and promptly took his clothing. He divested himself of his own tattered furs and leathers, and after putting the new ones on himself (a little tight but it would do under the circumstances) he placed them on the now dead body, it succumbed from blood loss and frost in the short time he used.

Ghost bit at some parts as the legs, arms and stomach to make it look like wolves did the deed. He had to make them discover the body as soon as possible to avoid a possible wight in the walls of Winterfell (who knew exactly how far the Cold's magic affected the fallen bodies?) and suspicion at the real cause of death, so he promptly screamed what seemed like a terrorized cry out and Ghost howled as high as possible multiple times. Then, they scampered fast to the cave and concealed before that any trace of his presence.

As he sat down next to the fire while eating the remaining comestibles he decided to delve further in the wooden box that rocked his world.

The lid open, he first saw his mother's letter he had put back in before going out of the cave. Softly, he took it out and placed it beside the ornamented wood. He looked down again and saw books, he guessed they were the journals his mother mentioned, two smaller boxes underneath them and three separate parchments.

He took one randomly in hands and opened it carefully so that he would not damage it. He did not know what it could be, maybe another letter or a legality of some sort. Instead, what he had in his possession was the official document stating his parents' wedding, executed both in front of a weirwood and a Septon, and his birth as a royal heir.

'Jon Jaehaerys Stark Targaryen, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm'

… He had been proclaimed King. By the Dowager Queen Rhaella Targaryen. His paternal grandmother.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck…

Apparently he was not really a Prince, as he had thought. A Sixth King enters the game. He could not believe it! Him, a King? He was a bastard some days ago!

Frustration, anxiety, terror and doubt circled inexorably in his mind without a stop. He was not worthy of his title, even if by some miraculous chance he did gain the throne! How could he be a King? He did not want to be one! He only wanted justice for the Stark family and household, repayment for treason both the Night's Watch's one and the Bolton/Frey one, and to exterminate the threat that the great Cold represented to humankind. He did not wish to play politics with pompous lords, only scheming behind his back to get the most power they could suck out of him.

The same thoughts ran around his mind incessantly for a long while. Then, he stopped pacing the cave (he had apparently gotten up without conscious knowledge) and stayed still, breathing big waves of air in and out of his lungs to calm himself. It would not do to panic, and act like an inexperienced child, he had been Lord Commander on the Wall, won battles, killed unnatural creatures, learned about death when it touched you closely, he could not shame himself by acting like a scared babe.

At that moment, he decided he would not dwell on the title that perturbed him so much. He would only focus on the duty it gave. Protector of the Realm. Let the others, power hungry mongrels fight for the so called power the position held.

He sat back down again and took one of the journals his mother left for him, it seemed logical to take that one since it was the one that looked the most used, and thus older. The beginning was always a nice place to start, when reading a story.

* * *

During the next few days he repeated the same routine with very few variations: wake up, eat the leftovers (if any) of the previous evening, go out and grab wood, explore the surroundings, exercise his swordsmanship, train with his companions be it by mentally sending messages or flying on Viserion while commanding 'dracarys' (he was immensely grateful to his father in those instants for the painful lessons of Valyrian), maybe go to the small lake and bathe himself as quickly as possible without any dwindling, and then, go back to the cave and read further the first journal he was gifted.

He learned in his mother's words, how much Arya resembled her as a young girl. Lyanna had been wild, willful and the most stubborn child in the world. She had trained by herself in the yard archery while escaping her crone of a teacher (thankfully it had not been a septa considering that the Faith only appeared at Winterfell after Lady Catelyn married into the House, or else the poor woman would have had a stroke). She had forced the master of arms and various guards to teach her swordplay, she knew how to manipulate every situation to her advantage, even if her Lady mother had not been the most enthusiastic at the idea of her daughter being a prey to harm. The wolf's blood had been strong in her veins.

Jon saw how much she had been loved, tolerated and cherished in her family. Her parents had adored her and gave her as much time as possible while still handling their duties and her brothers. His grandfather, Rickard (and the only one he was willing to call that, considering who the Mad King was) had been a stern but loving man. Lyarra, his other grandmother, a strong but compassionate woman. Her loss had wounded Lyanna very deeply and she mourned her for years.

Her older brother, Brandon had been as wild as her, but also a lot more reckless. In her stories, where they had various escapades and adventures together, her brother was always the one that took things too far. He also was as much of a ladies man as Theon claimed and dreamed himself to be years before. Lyanna had suspected that Brandon had a few bastards already, even before the announcement of his betrothal to the Tully girl. She had not been afraid to chastise him and nag about his dishonorable ways shaming the family as a whole.

And Ned had always joined her in her criticism. He had noted through the journals how much Eddard Stark stayed consistent in his life. As a child he had always been very serious and he took the Stark values the closest to his heart amongst all the siblings. Honor, duty and courage had always been the lines and principles of life he tried to uphold. He was the quiet wolf, silent, patient but deadly. However, Lyanna loved him the most. Ned had a particular place in her heart. She wrote: "Ned is like the other side of my person. Where I am reckless, he is the voice of conscience. Where I am too wild, he is the peace that calms my storm. When sometimes I become too soft and compassion takes hold of me, Ned is the necessary rigidity and strength. When I doubt, he puts the action in movement. Had we not different name days, I would think we were twins, two complimentary parts of one harmonious whole". When he went away to become a ward in the Eyrie, it was as if a part of her abandoned her too. Jon surmised their relationship was as strong as his with Arya, and very similar too.

Benjen had long been a baby in his sister eyes, childish innocence and adventurous spirit in a small body. However, as he grew older, he became the embodiment of a great part of his siblings in one. He had Brandon's thirst for action, Ned's honorable dutifulness, and her compassion. Lyanna had been an elder sister and a mother all in one to her smallest brother. In the journal (he had only read the first one almost entirely, not willing to rush and under appreciate the treasure he held in his palms) she gave him all her attention, teaching him, hugging him. The love she held for him was boundless, and at that moment, Jon saw that Lyanna would have been the mother he had always dreamed he had. It tore his heart in a way, reminding him of the all encompassing void, but it also warmed him from the inside to learn that his mother would have loved him and cared for him so much, had she had the chance to do so.

He had not yet reached the beginning of the turbulent years, and he suspected that this, he would read in the following journals. Although, he had already read the moment when Eddard came back from the Vale, almost a grown man, as strong and silent as ever, and with a joyous cocky boy at his side compensating his quietness with too much useless loudness. Lyanna had hated the Baratheon heir at first sight, and his attitude had only furthered her opinion on him. She tolerated his presence as much as possible for Ned. Her brother considered him his best friend, and after so many years with only him in the vicinity it was not really a surprise he had to settle with that, she remarked. Jon had laughed at the description she made of the now dead King.

She called him a worthless oaf with air instead of wits in his brain. She hated the way he strutted down every time she saw him walking somewhere, as if he owned the place or as if he was somehow better than all of them. On the one hand he complained about freezing balls in the cold wasteland, and on the other hand he followed her everywhere calling her the most beautiful winter rose that the North could ever create. She despised him purely, and simply.

Often, she had berated her older brother for his man whoring, but he was nothing next the whoremonger that was Robert Baratheon. Wine, ale, gluttony and whores were consummated by his one person in the amounts needed for a dozen of normal men. And he wanted her to succumb to his charms?!

Instead, Lyanna Stark, the girl that had never backed down from a fight, steered clear as much as possible from her brother's friend. And when she did see him, it was not always pretty to observe.

Sometimes, she went intentionally in the yard, chose a close target and while practicing archery grazed him with blunter arrows. When he looked angrily at her she would always invoke her stupid woman's hands, not strong and able enough to shoot correctly. Every time he would only smile stupidly and flirt, as if it was a sign of her liking of him. "Witless men…"

Other times, she would sabotage him in all the possible more subtle ways. She loved to take him down a notch in everybody's esteem, and particularly, her brother's. Manipulating whores, cooks and circumstances in her home base was easy for someone like Lyanna, cunning and well loved by everybody.

Ned was aware of her dislike of his friend and suspected her of the various miseries that befell him, but he was torn between his friendship that was the only joyous presence in his life for so many years in the distant Vale, and his most loved sister he missed terribly. He remained as neutral as possible, but most of the time if he pronounced himself in the undeclared war between the two, Lyanna won. As usual.

Already, Jon could glimpse at the beginning of the spread lies about his mother. She had not been a frail damsel in distress, and he could not imagine such a strong woman to let herself be kidnapped and held against her will for so long. Rape?! How? Robert had been so enamored with the fantasy he created for himself that he was blind and intolerant of everything differing from his ideal.

* * *

It had already been almost two weeks spent in the cave to the monotonous rhythm he imposed himself. Not much excitement was found. He mostly spent his time training with Viserion. Jon was aware that the white dragon would be instrumental in the fight against the Others and he would not let himself rely on simple instinct, without any concrete knowledge and shared experience to back his fighting on.

His bond with the magical creature strengthened day by day. With each minute spent with the dragon, he felt their connection more present and accessible. Now, he could communicate with Viserion without a conscious effort, where before he had to call for him and simultaneously find the mental link to tug on it.

With only a look, or a small gesture, Viserion understood perfectly his intention and acted on it. Sometimes it would be firing torrents of flames, or going up in the airs with one powerful swipe of wings. Jon practiced fighting on the dragon's back and the different ways he could mount his bonded.

Painfully, he learned that, unless no other solution, it would not be advisable to grab the leathery wings, they were very sensitive, so it hurt the dragon and consequently, Viserion, by pure reflex, either shoved him off or grazed him with his claws or teeth.

Also, he learned that, while very strong and fierce, the horns and multitude of pikes he had were particularly tickling spots for the dragon. Especially the base of the outer bones.

Viserion loved to be scratched and petted between his eyes, the top of his head and under his wings, but he hated the touch of anyone on his tail. Once, Jon slipped in an attempt to kneel on the back of his dragon, and, even if they were not far from the water (most of the time for their aerial training, they went to the Bay of Ice) he did not want to wet himself with the coldness of the sea, so he grabbed the long appendage. The screech the white creature emitted would always be remembered by him and the few poor souls living not far from the coast.

Furthermore, after the more needed aerial practice, Jon, Ghost and Viserion exercised and trained together to make a cohesive and battle ready group. He will not dwell on the subject, but Jon was confident that the trio of sword, claws and teeth would most certainly be formidable against anyone, or anything.

That day, after the extraneous activities, before going for the cave, he needed badly to bathe and wash his clothes. He approached cautiously the slightly bigger lake that was nearer Winterfell, not wanting to alert a patrol and slowly took off all his clothes. Being naked as the sun was setting was not really comfortable in this part of the world to say the least, but he braved the cold, not wanting to disgust himself any further.

As he approached the calm water, he was about to drop down his stolen wools and breaches, and wash them, but the image that mirrored him was most disturbing. He had expected to see the usual reflection of his. Instead he saw a few, but most troubling, changes.

Where usually his head has always been a full mass of black curls, now there was a slightly wide strand of silvery white hair at the exact same place his hair always became somehow straighter than the rest on the side of his head, clearly visible but not at the forefront either. He had always had a darker right eye, but now that darkness transformed in a deep amethyst. His cheekbones were now higher, his jaw even stronger and his lips slightly fuller. Jon had never been ugly, at least he did not think so, but now it was different to say the least. He imagined he looked a little less pure northern now.

He did not know how, but apparently, being torched in flames and bonding with a dragon, woke also the more physical aspects of his Targaryen blood.

Jon, considering his previous reaction to the letters, expected himself to freak a little bit. But, surprisingly, it seemed that all the recent discoveries and shocks made him more cooler headed. He took it in stride and after a few moments of perturbed gazing down to the watery mirror, he finished the task he had undertaken previously.

He returned to the cave, after a swift bath and sand scrubbing, drenched clothing in hands, furs keeping him from freezing and mind slightly pensive.

* * *

On the morrow of that particular day, before even beginning his day of usual routine he heard a scuffing sound at the entrance of the cave. Slowly, he took hold of Longclaw, the Valyrian steel Joer Mormont gave him, and glanced under his lashes at the source of sound.

He observed that Viserion was absent from his resting place, and Ghost was already on his haunches gazing at the intruder with teeth peeking under his taut furry skin. The man walking in the cave looked very much from the North: bearded long face, dark curled and loose hair with a braid on the side and towering height. Somehow, his instinct maybe, or his body language, told Jon that he was as surprised to see him as he was. He did not seem to wish him harm, but he could not be cautious enough.

Jon stood up confidently, raised his sword and opened his mouth.

"Who are you? What do you want?" He asked the fellow northerner.

"I am Torrel Harclay, from the Harclay mountain clan. I am coming back from Wooden Motte where I accompanied the young and elders for their journey away from the winter. Who are you?"

Jon paused for a small moment. He knew that the identity of the northerner was probably true, before the harshest period of Winter, the mountain clans always made their most vulnerable members go in the various villages around the rocky areas, and Winter Town in hope to make them survive the cold. However, Jon did not know how to present himself, he could not risk any betrayal. He decided to go with simplicity and a half-truth.

"My name is Jon Snow, Ned Stark's son."

Torrel's eyes opened wide for a moment with surprise, then, he schooled his features down after a few instants and replied to him.

"I am sorry for your losses then. If you so desire, you are most welcome to accompany me to Harclay Hill. House Harclay has always been, and will always be faithful to House Stark. We will help you in whatever way we can."

He thought for a while about the idea and nodded. He could not stay indefinitely in this small cave, and planning for the retake of Winterfell without any allies was not very conclusive and productive, especially in those dire times.

"Thank you. Until then, please sit. There is still some game from the evening and a handful of roots if you wish to eat."

"I appreciate very much. Thank you." He then glanced at the huge white wolf gazing at him silently in the corner. "Will he attack if I approach?"

"Do not worry, that is my companion direwolf, Ghost. If you do not wish me any harm, none will befall you either."

While they were eating and chatting aimlessly, Jon sent a mental message to Viserion to stay away from the cave and remain as discreet as possible. The dragon answered agreeing but he sensed unrest and worry in him too. The newly revealed Targaryen did not wish to reveal his cards without any guarantee of loyalty and meeting the clan's head so, most of the time, he either stayed quiet or directed conversation to less problematic subjects.

The day after, he prepared himself as usual, the benefit of not having anything he guessed, and only took under his arm the precious wooden box. He saw Torrel glance at it, again, but thankfully he did not say anything just as the previous day.

Slowly, they went out of the cave and went north. The march was long and strenuous. They had to climb up the crescendo stronger base of the northern mountains, while still being on the look out for any Bolton man, or possible spy. The walk was hard but nothing too much for Jon's physical state. Going out and exercising every day after a rejuvenating pyre maintained him well it seemed.

On the journey, they were ambushed by the cold sizzle of the winter rain. He preferred much more a harsher cold than the wet feeling seeping frost into his bones.

The early morrow on the second day of walking without stopping for the night, saw them arrive near a vast hill in between two very high mountains where a large settlement was installed. From their vantage point he could see a larger stone building probably housing the clan head, and a multitude of surrounding houses made of stones and wood. Chimneys everywhere let smoke run up in the air. The paths between the houses and the unique proper road leading to the main building were bustling with activities. People prepared everything they could find to survive as much as possible the coming months that would most probably be the harshest in this winter. Only adults and able bodies could be observed, not a child or older man to be seen, they would never resist against the coming frosts and snows.

When they arrived at the wooden arch signaling the beginning of the village, the people that noticed them regarded him strangely, a little melting of fright and suspicion. It was not often indeed that strangers came to their home, and never one accompanied by a huge white wolf walking on guard at his side. They all took a wide berth around them, not wanting to become the dinner of the large animal.

A few moments after, they were welcomed in the head household, apparently Torrel was the son of the current Harclay head. He was led by a servant to a small room where he took a much needed warm bath and clothed himself in fresh breaches, tunic and cloak. While he seemingly came back to life, he turned on his brain to consider every possible path his discussion with The Harclay would take. What actions would he take in each case. Better be prepared.

At the same time he connected with Viserion to see through his eyes. Currently, the dragon was flying over the mountains on the side of the Bay of Ice. Jon asked him to be careful and to find a spot to land in the nearing mounts of this place. In case something bad happened.

He was interrupted by a knock on the heavy wooden door, and when he opened it, it was the same servant woman standing before him, eyes to the ground.

"The Harclay is ready to see you, if you are freshened."

* * *

 _I hope that you all liked it!_

As usual, the same speech, if you have any question, recommendation, criticism, grammatical or selling error to point out, or would simply like to tell me what you taught of the exclusively Jon chapter lease do so by reviewing!

See you very soon for the next chapter!


	8. Obedient pupils

Hi everyone! _Voilà_ the new chapter! This time girls will be the main focus!

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own anything apart from the plot, original characters and new ideas and notions introduced to the general universe. Every right goes to the great GRRM for his genius, and HBO for their great adaptation.

* * *

Being blind made her learn a great many things she would not have guessed even existed beforehand. Arya now knew to see without sight. Observe only with sounds, air and touch. Judge without the lying appearances. Those were deadly indeed.

Sometimes, the lines on a man's face, or the crease on a woman's lips spelled to everyone willing to look the hardships they endured during the course of their lives. The dark spots acquired from work under the unforgiving sun, the frail feeling of bony hands lacking meat grasping for strength they did not have, the slouch bending a peasant's back even as he walked through the market… all those were supremely telling. She knew that from her wanderings in Winterfell, visiting bakers, smiths and simple land workers, when the nickname 'Arya Underfoot' had been gifted to her. She knew it from her first jobs with the Faceless Men too.

However, without sight, how does a girl read those signs ? "A girl will learn." Jaqen had only told her.

A girl listens to the movements of body, the sounds of rustling in the clothing (soft for the richer silks and more rugged for the harsher inexpensive wool or linen), the various intonations in a man's voice transposing their emotions even when the said words mask them: anger, fear, disgust, greed, lust. As she went blind longer and longer, her ears told her much more easily where a lie dwells. What seemed like the harshest punishment now invoked gratitude and satisfaction in Arya.

Because now Arya knew how to become a girl without a name. She did not know the intended purpose of making her sightless, she guessed it was to make her learn humility and obedience, to rely solely on their wisdom and orders, instead she learned skill and defiance. Her name, that they wanted to make her forget, she will never let go. But she will hide it masterfully. Controlling one's voice, body and voice became a daily exercise she, as time passed, excelled in. It became gradually second nature to the wild girl she had been. She was grateful for the elongated blindness because it made her more mature, less hasty, stronger.

However, that strength shattered and rebuilt itself each and every time that she shared a wolf dream with Nymeria's eyes. It broke her heart and mended it at the same moment. She saw her direwolf leading a pack, fasting on various preys: sheep, dogs, deers and sometimes men. The smaller gray brothers were afraid to eat the human flesh, but Nymeria was not. A prey was meat. She ate those that were harming to their presence, or threatened her packs, the one she conquered and ruled, and the one she was born with, that will always hold a link to her.

The thoughts of pack reminded Arya of her missing family, their uncertain status. Of the moment she heard Nymeria howling incessantly when Lady was butchered, and when she felt through her direwolf the link connecting her with Grey Wind and its human mate die forever. Arya had not needed the written confirmation or whispers on the roads to know that Robb, the Young Wolf, King in the North, had been murdered, betrayed, she had felt it deep in her guts.

Her dreams of Nymeria showed her the path her direwolf and the wolf pack took. Through their link she knew that even though the coming winter diminished the amount of prey they found, the female direwolf had to go away from the watery lands that still was bustling with resources. Even if she had to abandon the small gray cousins on the road to reach her goal.

In one of those dreams, she had now every time she went to sleep, or even meditated deeply, she saw through the wolf's eyes that they were headed towards large mountains leaving sometimes space for green valleys. Arya recognized it immediately as the Mountains of the Moon and the Vale. Why was Nymeria going to the east towards the Eyrie? It didn't make sense. She should head north if she was leaving the Riverlands.

The answer came to her days after that particular dream. Nymeria was hidden behind tall trees and advancing slowly towards someone.

Her hair was darker than she remembered even under the dark light of dusk, her height even greater (she would not be surprised to learn she was sometimes taller than men), her figure as graceful and softly enticing as always, and her beauty still remained unparalleled. However the hurried and silent steps of her walk, the look of urgency mixed with what she recognized now as cold acceptance shook her profoundly. She looked worried, nervous, afraid and seemed to be running from someone. And still, she remained as proud and determined as a true wolf.

Sansa was alive! She had changed, grown up, but Arya felt pride and relief surge through her.

She woke up abruptly in the cold room she had been assigned to sleep in and wept for her sister.

The sister she had despised as a child. The sister that made her feel uncomfortable. But also the sister she missed dearly and never loved more than at that instant.

 _'Nymeria, keep her safe, please.'_ She willed her wild companion to hear her plea, even if an entire sea separated them.

It gave her purpose to be the best liar she could be. She had to learn everything she could, because soon, her pack she will rejoin. She had to survive and win the game of faceless lies.

* * *

A convocation was mentally sent to her mind. She had to meet the Supervisor again. As she prepared herself, clothing her body with the tender woolen robes, adorning her neck and hands of jewels, she mused about the convocation and the subject th at will be discussed.

Living in Asshaï confronted her with many things people thought impossible or only myths. One did not need to send written messages if one knew the higher teachings of the shadows. Rhaenys still was not accustomed to that particular form of communication. She had only learned how to do it a few moons before Rhaegal's arrival. However, the feeling of a dark cloud invading the brain to show the meaning behind the message was not comfortable. And she guessed it never would be. She was not from the Shadows, she only learned them, thus they would always feel estranged from her. She would always feel violated by the intrusion. Also, she feared for what they could maybe do to her mind if they could reach it as easily as they already do.

She touched her dragon's mind through the shared connection, as she was going out on the dark streets leading to the center of the city. The vision of dark stone and a grim sky was what she met. Rhaegal slept on the Great Tower he landed on the first time he came for her. It was an indisputable condition for allowing him and Rhaenys to stay in Asshaï under peaceful terms, and she had to agree for she knew she had one more thing to acquire before their departure.

"Go hunt and scout the horizons Rhaegal. You know how to feel for Drogon and Daenerys's presence. It should not be long before their arrival. Please feed well, I sense tedious times soon, and it would be better to prepare ourselves for any eventuality."

She felt the dragon's agreement and saw him, a few moments later, flying over towards the sea. Awe still reached for her every time she looked at her dragon. In the time he spent at her side those few past weeks, he had become even more ferocious and grand. Even more majestic and ravenous. She was aware it was their bond that reinforced him, but she was still in the harder time of accepting that something of that scale has happened to her. Even if she had a preview long before. She could only guess the befuddlement Jon most certainly felt…

As she arrived before the great stony doors that opened by their own selves and quickly reached for the room she had been summoned to, she feared the purpose of the convocation. She could not determine the exact reason as to why she had such a bad feeling about it, but it did not presage anything good in her opinion.

The room her sight was met with was still as dark as it had been the last time she was in. Shadows inhabited every single part of the space, the rich ornaments made of bronze, gold, and every possible precious stone seemed muted and cheap, with a menacing aura, from the lack of light reflecting on them. The seat where the Supervisor – in Asshaï tongue Mushlardefhaï- sat quietly was encroached in darkness.

She could not see his face, nor his body. Nobody, except a very restrained council of elders that denied it when asked, knew who exactly the Supervisor was. His purpose was to mold the different aspects of Asshaï together, so it would not be touched by the pettiness and greed of human nature. Without him, the different cults present in the city would wage incessant war on each other, the tensions already existing would be at their higher points and the magic and sorcery living in the dark walls of the Shadowlands capital would clash and destroy everything. The buildings, the people and the knowledge.

At least, that was the offered explanation when she had asked the question in the first year of her arrival. Having lessons in politics since her early years and living in the city since then taught her to never trust anyone nor any information easily given. The city of Shadows relished in its mysteries and darkness. The agenda of the higher positions, even in the Old and most noble Asshaï, was never known to the lower steps on the food chain.

"Is the Valyrian Queen soon to come?" his rumbling voice and the harsh language her throat was still uncomfortable with, interrupted her musings. She was confused and slightly anxious about the name he designated her aunt with. She knew of the contempt the shadowmen felt about the dragonlords and the Freehold of Valyria, she experienced it firsthand every time someone gazed at the pale hair and deep amethyst eyes that marked her as a Targaryen. Even centuries after the Doom, in this part of the world the people did not forget the resentment they felt at the Valyrian's power and magic, so why would he call her thus? What is the motive behind it?

"The Queen of Meereen is soon to arrive, indeed." She didn't offer anything more, nor ask any question, her instinct told her to remain guarded, and she trusted it implicitly.

Humming could be heard from the dark place she guessed he was in. If it was indeed a man, no one knew, and the outer worldly voice did not help to conclude anything. Sorcery had a great many uses it seemed.

"As she arrives, I wish to meet her and the other dragons. Arrange it for me, little child of the West."

Alarms sounded in her. A deep rooted, and instinctual, need to flee or flight. She did not now what he meant to do with them, Daenerys, her and their dragons, but she felt deep in her bones that none will be good. Furthermore, he counted on all three of the dragons to be present, it had to signify he needed them all. Nonetheless, she schooled her features and nothing of her inner agitation showed through the carefully constructed mask of pleasantness and obedience she painted on her face.

"Of course, I will do my best. Is that all that was needed, Lord Supervisor?"

"I also have to share with you a development that concerns you. Your lessons and access to the Source will be restricted once the Valyrian Queen lands. We do not accept her in it and don't want her to use you. You understand? It is for the safety of the Source and yourself."

"I respect and understand your decision, the Source has to be protected. Although, can I finish the tome I began on the day before now, it is the most interesting thing about the power of the Faith in the Kingdoms of Westeros during the early years of the unification? It is something about my birth land that catches greatly my interest."

"Of course you can, it will be a great finish on the path you took years ago. You may leave if nothing of concern you have to share."

"Thank you, Lord Supervisor, I bid you farewell, may the Shadows bring fortune."

The book she had told him about had been one she had finished months ago, but it was the first thing that came to her mind at the instant and it could serve well if there were spies following her. She had to get away from Asshaï as soon as possible, they were all in danger.

She went as quickly as possible, without seeming rushed and concerned, only excited, towards the great Library, a part of The Source of Knowledge (the largest section certainly but not the most unattainable). Once there, she moved swiftly towards the aisle where books on religions and their historical impact were stored, because she felt under scrutiny. Maybe she imagined it, but it would not do to act without caution in such a sensible matter.

On the way, she greeted the usual faces she recognized, even those that were completely masked, and behaved in her usual way as much as possible. She did not look fazed at all with her previous meeting.

The book "Faith and power" she had mentioned to the Supervisor in hand, she steered down that same aisle and reached a small cranny in the dark and cold stone where a bench and table, adorned with small candles for the reading, were carved and sat down.

To anyone observing her, she would seem peaceful and only reading a book of great size, as per usual for her. She opened it to one third of the mass, as if she had scrolled previously through it already, and read silently and studiously. At least it looked like she did.

Her left hand, that would usually rest on the folds of her layered dresses between her crossed legs, patted guardedly under the carved table until it found a small protrusion she pushed on as strongly as possible. She had been a little uncertain in the beginning, but she trusted her gift, and two days after she bonded with Rhaegal, she had dreamed of herself doing so and finding a book essential for the future. If not taken with her, she saw that their ultimate fight will be a loss without the ancient tome. She did not know why it was needed nor how it happened to be waiting for her at that exact place. Soon, she will learn.

Slowly, she extracted what felt like centuries old parchment under a binding of smooth engraved leather and carefully she hid it underneath the first layer of her robes.

After a little more than an hour, she began miming fatigue and sighs. Twenty minutes later it seemed like she was slowly falling asleep on the table. A few moments later she acted like she woke up suddenly from a quick dream, and decided to finally relent from reading. She stood up, grabbed the huge book and after a dozen steps replaced it in its place on the library shelf. She verified her pouch of coins was still on her bronze belt (in the event a thief passed through rows of books to rob sleeping damsels) and slowly, sleepily, trudged down the path she had taken a few hours before. She bid goodbye with a nod to the keeper, as stony as ever, and gently pushed through the door leading to the crowded street. Years of acting as a sweet and gentle lady, frail and manipulable, made of her a phenomenal liar.

She feared that an alarm would ring at her departure, as it had happened sometimes when the magic of the ancient building detected a book being stolen, but, thankfully, nothing happened.

As she walked unhurriedly towards her house, a vision through Rhaegal's eyes pushed itself in her mind. She saw in the distance, above the bustling forests of Yi Ti and not far from the shoreline of the Jade Sea, a black dragon mounted by a woman with fair hair.

She did not have much time, she feared. Her cadence was taken up a notch but she still had to seem like she was just impatient to arrive home and lie down so it was not an outright run.

Finally, she reached her house and closed swiftly the door behind her. She was grateful, once again, of the advice the now deceased lady that welcomed her in the beginning gave her when she searched for a residence, "take an ancient house, it is protected from sorcery and harder to break in". She could pack the few things she needed imperatively in the dark without fear of being observed in her house. Dragon sight helped her greatly in that moment to see clearly in the all encompassing darkness.

Hurriedly, she grabbed leather satchels she knew would resist dragon flight, put a few clothes, the jewels she inherited from both her families, the little toy harp that was a gift from her father Rhaegar, the documents that proved her identity, the book in her robes, and a few things she needed to practice the magic she could never hope to find outside of Asshaï.

She changed her clothing too, the soft dress that had adorned her body for the entire day had been exchanged for lather breaches, high sturdy boots, a thick tunic and leather vest that was closed tightly around her waist. Around her middle she buckled her thick leather and bronze belt that hid small sharp scales she could throw, and she added on it a few knives and daggers she would need.

She pulled her pale hair in a bun and secured it with a headband to be free of pieces flying in her face while riding Rhaegal.

The leather bags in hands, she went to the kitchen where she packed another one full of food and a skin of water. After, she went up the stairs and, once she reached the end of it, she pulled open a trapdoor that led to the roof.

The moment she stepped on the stony roof, she felt shadows watching her and quickly approaching. She was grateful to Rhaegal swiping in just before they could reach her. She had called him minutes before through their link and expressed the urgency of the situation.

Carefully she climbed up on the nape of his neck and urged him to fly even faster. They had to get as far away of Asshaï as possible before meeting Daenerys and the black dragon.

Looking down she saw archers aiming up for them and sorcerers conjuring shadows to hunt them through the airs. She knew that dragonfire could destroy them and asked Rhaegal to torch them all in flames. She did not care if some could be innocent, she would not let harm happen to her bonded companion. She did not care if maybe she had known some of them, because if they captured them, and if they did so to Daenerys too, they would all be doomed.

The smell of jarred flesh and smoke invaded her nostrils and she gagged slowly, she was not accustomed to death, not when she was the one to carry it out.

She felt relief swoop through her once they reached the sea and passed the immediate area of the harbor. She sent the image he showed her what seemed like hours before, to Rhaegal's mind and asked him to lead them to his brother and Daenerys.

Underneath her, she felt him move his wings even harder and faster in response to the rushed tone she had. Affection led her to pet him and kiss softly the top of his scaly head during long minutes where she allowed herself a few tears. She did not care, but it was still the first time someone died directly because of her and a small measure of guilt still pinched her chest. The embracing of her dragon was a result of mixed gratitude and need of comfort.

After a long while of endless water and sky, she saw in the horizon not far from the isle of Leng, a dark dragon sweeping through the airs.

"Rhaegal, can you communicate with your brother?"

Through their connection she felt him hesitate, as if unsure of the answer, and slowly acquiesce.

"Then, please, make him understand to land in the forest, away from people where we can talk without worry."

She observed him and the black dragon silently, and after a few moments of a feeling of frustration being sent to her mind she saw his birth brother spitting flames and slowly head towards the rich forests of the eastern island.

Rhaenys and Rhaegal were further away than Daenerys of the woods, thus reaching it later too. But, once they did, they landed a few meters from the black dragon and the silver haired woman that mounted him.

She saw Daenerys wearing a mixture of emotions on her face: relief at Rhaegal's well being, surprise to see him there and anger at the figure of the woman mounting him as if it was her right.

Rhaenys approached silently the slightly taller woman and stopped a short distance form her.

"Hello, Daenerys."

* * *

I hope that you all liked it, and thank you for reading!

What did you think of Arya's introduction in the fiction? And the meeting?

As always, if you have any comment, recommendation, criticism, a grammar or spelling error to point out, or would simply like to share your feeling about the newest chapter, please do so by reviewing!

See you soon!


	9. Island of change

**Hi every body!** I hope you are all well and happy to see a new chapter! I know I am kind of late in publishing it, and I am really, really sorry, guys for my inconsistence. I will be honest with you, the chapter had been written actually early in the past week, but editing has been a little hard to do, well, mostly finding the time to do it has been harder. A charged week you know? Especially with the 14th of july (our national holiday here in France) etc... _BUT!_ I promise, the next chapter will be up this week, as usual!

Also! If you want to see what I imagine Rhaenys to look like, head to my profile I have a link there!

That said, I wish you all to enjoy this new chapter entirely focused on the moments after the meeting between Rhaenys and Daenerys!

 **Disclaimer:** None of this, apart from the plot and some new introduced ideas and concepts, are mine. The rights of the greatness that is ASOIF and GOT solely belong to the evil genius GRRM and HBO for their awesome adaptation.

Good read!

* * *

Rhaenys Targaryen sat in front of her, across the slowly burning pyre they lit as night fell on the remote part of the forest they landed on. Rhaenys Targaryen. Her presumed dead niece. Rumored to have been butchered mercilessly by the 'Ser' Gregor Clegane, the so-called Mountain, in front of her agonizing mother, as King's Landing was being sacked by the Rebellion forces, the Lannisters in particular.

Her mesmerizing deep lavender eyes gazed at her fixedly, her expression cool and collected, and Dany forced herself not to fidget under the strength of her stare. Her beauty as astounding and extraordinary as everybody had imagined it would become had she had the opportunity to grow up. The perfect mixture of the old blood of the Rhoynar and Valyria. She was effectively creating fierce competition against her in the road to winning the title of most fair woman in the world. And, unexpectedly she did survive against everybody's previous belief.

Daenerys would not know how to describe her feelings if someone asked right at that moment. A torrent of emotions poured out of her. Confusion. Anger. Anxiousness. Fear. Guilt. Doubt. Jealousy. And those were only a few of them all, the easily recognizable ones. Those she was the most acquainted with. What was she indeed supposed to feel? She wondered... Relief? Immediately, she scoffed internally at the thought.

However, against her will, in some peculiar, useless way she did. She was not alone anymore. She had surviving family, a blood connection with another living person. Someone that could perhaps support her, maybe even love and respect her one day… Of course, those thoughts were immediately chased out by the vicious memories of Viserys, his scorn and violence, what he taught her family was in their bloodline, their world: a means to an end, without foolish womanly dreams of love and warmth.

And that end, that objective she had fought for, prepared for, trained for was suddenly challenged so easily and swiftly by the very same woman looking calmly at her. The slight relief she had felt for a few instants had been shoved away by the realization that Rhaenys was actually the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Not her. All her goals and ambitions, all her battles and losses, her very dreams had been stolen so quickly, made vain and cheap. And she dared look at her with all the calm in the world as she destroyed everything?!

Daenerys was the daughter of the Mad King, certainly. She was a Princess, even if her parentage did not really give her an advantage, considering madness was thought to be hereditary, it seemed. But Rhaenys' father, was Rhaegar Targaryen, the Crown Prince, the loved and acclaimed silver haired prince, crazily and tragically in love with the wrong woman. Therefore, the succession being passed through the male lines thanks to the so great laws of the sexes, her niece was the true Targaryen heir. Even her age gave her an advantage considering she was a few years older than the silver haired Meereen Queen.

All those thoughts churned and danced endlessly in her mind since the very moment Rhaenys introduced herself to her. Such nonchalance, confidence and charisma exuded from her that she could not have even dreamed at that instant to contest her claimed identity. Daenerys swallowed sourly at the memory, a sneer worming its way to stretch her face. "Hello, Daenerys" she had said as easily as if she was addressing a mere woman in the streets and not a Khaleesi, a Conqueror, a Queen, "I am pleased to meet you, Aunt. Allow me to introduce myself formally, I am Rhaenys Targaryen."

Daenerys fought with herself to regain a semblance of calmness, and poise. She could not act like a lowly peasant, She, was a Queen. Countenance, grace and confidence were the key words she had to learn painfully to be an esteemed royal figure. She would not allow herself to lose everything she had worked so hard to acquire, to just slip between her fingers because of a mere girl claiming to be her niece. Without even presenting anything in order to support her word.

"How do I know you really are who you are introducing yourself to be? Show me proof! Young I may be, but I am not a gullible woman you can so easily twirl around to personal whims and fantasies. So appetizing is the prospect of royalty and power, that I would not be surprised to learn you are nothing but another Imposter, Usurper!" She controlled her voice as much as possible, trying to sound commanding but not arrogant, trying to not let pass through the insecurities. Trying being the key world, tragically for her confidence and aura.

The beautiful woman sitting with more comfort than she thought a simple log could ever provide, only looked at her, poised and self assured, and let a small smirk tear her lips. Moments after, she even dared to chuckle! Daenerys felt a black curtain of anger and affront slam itself down in front of her eyes. Rage submerged her. It exuded form her very core and glided out of every pore on her body.

"Tell me! Show me! Do you not know who I am? I am Daenerys Targaryen, the Stormborn, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Queen of Meereen and Princess of Dragonstone! Answer me or the consequences will be dire I assure you!"

Indeed, Daenerys has never been known for her patience and passiveness, that one had tired itself out under Viserys' viciousness. She was impulsive, full of blood of fire. Anger could not be contained sometimes even by normal lowly men and even less so by those of the blood of the dragon, and after all she went through with only the sight of the woman so daringly mounting one of her precious children, as if she had the right to do so, she could not be composed anymore. She was just about to allow herself another shout and ramble when Rhaenys' rudeness once again appeared by interrupting her.

"Such pretty titles you acclaim yourself with, and yet, do they really belong to you, dear Aunt Daenerys?"

The Khaleesi gaped at the daring woman speaking so calmly and matter of fact-ly. As if the discussed theme was only the weather!

Nevertheless, with only those few words, Rhaenys brought forth one of the emotions she tried with all her might to shove away for what seemed like an eternity now, maybe even the most important one: helplessness. Her old demon she shoved daily out of her mind.

Daenerys felt despair invade her because of such a tiny sentence in the greater scale, yet it shattered her last hope. The hope that even if Rhaenys had at first grown up in the Red Keep, and then, just as her, in the vast Essos continent, she would have remained clueless about the functioning of their monarchy, about her rightful claim to the Iron Throne. She had hoped that her already tedious chances of reconquering Westeros would not be further destroyed by her niece.

She had hoped Rhaenys would reveal herself to be only a simple minded girl, the embodiment of the image every man thought women should be: meek and malleable, clueless about important matters of the states, without any real knowledge except embroidery and faith. She guessed, in hindsight, that the woman flying away from Asshaï, the City of Shadows, would only prove those dreams to only be fickle and demeaning concerning Rhaenys Targaryen.

Instead, she was met with the perfect figure and description of a Queen: beautiful, intelligent, strong and poised. Everything Daenerys had tortuously worked on herself to achieve.

Anger now came back with viciousness and mixed itself with the hopelessness. _How?! Why?!_

Rhaenys looked at her impassively, as if not even slightly disturbed by the loss of composure her aunt showed off. Daenerys could see in her eyes that not an ounce of surprise had come through, it seemed like the older woman expected it from her, as if she knew her intimately beforehand, and it did nothing to calm the influx of negative emotions endlessly churning already in her.

Her eyes squinted at the graceful figure sitting calmly in front of her. Daenerys tried to shush the dark feelings in her, tried to regain calm and poise, but every time she glanced at the deep lavender eyes looking at her, they violently fought back for control. This struggle with her own emotions, and thoughts is new to her. At least, the extent of its power and its darkness. Before, she had always had a hard time figuring out how to remain impassive in face of fear and doubt, now it was against rage and despair she fought against, and the rumble in her mind was consequently much louder.

As if sensing her boiling point coming, Rhaenys interrupted her, _again_ , with a serene tone in her lulling soft husky voice.

"Please, calm yourself. You need not focus uselessly this negativity on me. I am not the one that can claim the throne you wrongly thought was rightfully yours."

"What?!" Daenerys exclaimed immediately, without thinking or any hope of possibly containing herself. She was dumbfounded and somehow (she would not have thought it possible…) even more angry. "Who?! Who steals what is by right mine from me if not you, my declared niece?! Fire and Blood will be unleashed on them without an ounce of mercy!"

Rhaenys only smiled somehow bitterly, and did not answer immediately to her demanding questions. Instead, she smoothly stood up and prepared the bigger fur she took with her next to the fire. She even allowed herself the right to ignore her and go to Rhaegal and caress the top of his head, _again_ as if she had any right to do so. Only then did she deem it enough and decided to act like she should in front of a person of Daenerys' rank and prestige, by quietly going back to her makeshift cot and finally replying to her. As if she did not torment the younger woman with her actions only moments before.

"I will answer on the morrow, do not fear, Aunt. However, I think it would be much careful to sleep now, for the night is dark and vows to be short. Tomorrow awaits us with a long tedious journey and the shadow people and their sorcerers want to capture not only the dragons but us too. Putting as much distance between us and them as possible is very much necessary, I fear."

And before Daenerys even had the time to absorb the amount of information she had just been delivered with, Rhaenys lied down and closed her eyes while murmuring a soft "Good night".

Daenerys observed, bewildered, the outrageous woman falling to sleep so peacefully and swiftly. Did she dare not answer her?! Did she hear her clearly giving her orders, as if she had all the rights to do so?!

Without knowing she mimicked the previous actions of her niece, and made some what of a cot with her thicker robes and set herself down too. Her mind contemplating and going around in circles with everything that happened in only one day.

Tyrion's arrival the day before with an obscure suggestion from some suspicious oracle woman saying to go to the east (and she only heeded the recommendation seeing the Imp's determination confidence, also the memory of Quaithe's words in Quarth _'to reach the west you must go east'_ helped her finalize her decision).

Her tedious reunion with her favorite child, Drogon. How hard it had been to implore him to please take her to her mysterious destination. How he had burned two of her guards alive when she had first tried to mount him.

Then, the exhilarating feeling of flying through the airs, feeling the wind caress her hair while the sun warmed her skin.

The long taxing journey, high in the airs, over seas, cities and deserted lands. Where wonderment about the speed and light-headedness from the rushed blended seamlessly.

And finally the event that changed everything for her: meeting Rhaenys as she flew on Rhaegal's back without any effort, as if it was the most easy and natural thing in the world. Learning that her purpose in life was vain and hopeless, without any hope of ever succeeding.

And, with those troubling thoughts, the former Targaryen heir, Daenerys the Stormborn, fell asleep with a silent tear that she had vainly fought against for a long while now, sliding down her soft pale cheek. Leaving the problematic reality for the morrow and happily going instead in the land of dreams where warmth, love, family and success still existed for her and were not chastised by hurtful memories.

* * *

Daenerys woke up, grungy and a little bit confused about her whereabouts, with the soft sounds of feet and rustles of the furs. The crisp air of the morning at the same time numbed her body and made her regain her consciousness from its playful cold bite.

Slowly, she sat up from her hard makeshift cot composed of only slightly thicker materials than her thin dress, and looked around her. She saw a silver gold haired woman, tan skin and beautiful deep amethyst eyes, moving in their tentative encampment, and suddenly, the events of the day before all came rushing back to the forefront of her mind.

She had, for a moment, hoped vainly that it had only been some kind of fantasy nightmare taking its roots from insecurities and deep, unrevealed fears. That it had only been a figment of her imagination ( _'such a foolish dreamer you are little sister, do not wake the dragon!'_ Viserys' words echoed even years after his death in that instant). Yet, before her stood the figure of her niece, older than her but still, regal and seemingly wise collecting her scattered belongings and storing carefully some obscure plants in a small pot.

As if aware that she was the subject of her thoughts, Rhaenys turned around and looked at her questioningly. Then, she called out to her: "I am afraid it is due time to wake and go quickly. Rhaegal is agitated, and he showed me sightings of approaching fast ships. We have to hurry!"

Daenerys, her mind still in the fuzziness of lingering sleepy dreams, did not comprehend every thing her niece told her. Nevertheless, she understood the most important matter: they had to fly quickly away from some assailants. And, even if escape is not a method Daenerys Targaryen usually condoned, a remembrance from the previous evening where the subject of sorcerers desiring their dragons had been discussed, quickly convinced her to, again, heed Rhaenys' suggestion.

They assembled their possessions and cleaned out their makeshift base in a tense and worried silence. Bags were repacked swiftly, furs collected and stored away and clothes rearranged to appear slightly more proper.

When they were both ready and packed to go, the two of them turned to each of their mounts, not without an angry and slightly bitter look from Daenerys in Rhaenys' direction. The daughter of the Mad King already held apprehension at the idea of begging Drogon to let her ride on his back. She had done it without a problem the day before in front of her subjects and counselors in Meereen, knowing that even if she begged him, Drogon was still a much feared dragon, and his presence by her side guaranteed her that some fear would always linger in the simpler people.

However, the mere thought of doing so in front of Rhaenys, a woman that had already with only few sentences destroyed her entire certitudes and plans, filled her with revulsion, anger, and begrudgingly, fear.

Just as she succeeded in pushing aside her pride and walked resolutely towards the black dragon, the prospect of sorcery not one she relished in meeting again, Daenerys felt even more frustration and anger rise in her when she saw Rhaenys straddle without any effort the green dragon. Not a word of supplication told. Not one look of pleading. Not one fearful pat on the dragon's snout. She was bewildered, her mouth without doubt hanging ungracefully a little open, by the ease and fluidity of the movement in which the other Targaryen rose on her mount's back.

Her niece, Rhaenys, captured the look of surprise she was giving her and gazed at her questioningly. She contemplated her aunt and her own previous actions, and, finally, opened her mouth.

"Why do you seem so surprised by me mounting Rhaegal? Are you not aware that we are bonded? Were you believing only you could make a link with them?" she asked her, not really spitefully but with still a bite in her tone.

Daenerys, even if slight shame and frustration irrupted from her lack of knowledge, was still a little glad that for once, Rhaenys did not seem to know and predict everything. Finally, she seemed at least by a mere fraction more reachable and less perfect. However, her satisfaction did not effectively quench her surprise, nor answer the exponential amount of questions raising in her mind, one after the other, in regards to everything she had encountered in the short time she had been in the other woman's presence.

"Bonded?" she further questioned, her voice a little weak and breathy.

* * *

At that particular moment, Rhaenys realized that even if the now Queen of Meereen, then only Khaleesi, had been the one to rekindle the magic in the dragon's eggs with the present time and land, thanks to the esoteric power of a funeral pyre (only heightened by the presence of a sorceress in it), Daenerys did not, in fact, know what, nor how, she did that, or how to link herself with her bond mate. _Was she even aware of the existence of bonds?_ She wondered with a passing thought.

But, judging by her question, it seemed not. She guessed, after reflecting a little bit, that the black dragon had only allowed her aunt to mount him because of their already existing connection (she considered herself _'Mother of dragons'_ after all, even if the idea was purely ludicrous) and the potential link they would hopefully acquire in the not so distant future. His affection and loyalty that lived since his hatching for her, worked perfectly to her benefit. And she told Daenerys so too.

"Daenerys, please do not anger yourself from the words I will speak. It seems you do not know much about dragons even if you helped the three remaining ones to hatch. Drogon, I think, only allowed you to ride him because of existing affections and loyalty. But, I promise to enlighten you as soon as possible. However, for now, time is slowly running out I fear. The ships coming from Asshaï are not far from the coast and it will be much easy for them to incapacitate us if we are on the same soil as them."

Seeing Daenerys' doubtful and frustrated look, Rhaenys sighed. She did not expect her reunion with her aunt to be easy nor trustful immediately. But they really were pressed by the time and those discussions would have to be postponed to a later date and different location.

"I beg of you to listen, I know you do not have to, nor really have the desire to, but trust me in this matter. The shadowbinders and sorcerers that will soon reach the Island we are on, are not ones to be trifled with. They are experts in their domains, and their prowess is grand, even in the City of Shadows they are feared. And, unfortunately for us, they are much determined to acquire not only living dragons, but also two members of the almost entirely eradicated blood of Old Valyria, blood of the dragon. We have to go, escape from their reach, fast!"

Rhaenys saw that some mistrust and doubts still lingered on her aunt's face and eyes, but she seemed to actually hear the not entirely concealed desperation and fear lacing her hurried voice. She nodded after a slight moment of hesitation and returned to Drogon's side.

The younger Targaryen once again allowed herself to spontaneously show on her face surprise at the immediate movement of the black dragon. He had instantly lowered his head and remained calm as Daenerys rose on his back, a bag in her hand.

They did not waste time any further and both of the dragons moved their wings as hard and fast as they could, at the same time. Their brotherly bond making them synchronous in some circumstances, apparently.

As they were flying away from the rich green woods they had rested for the night in, Rheanys verified with Rhaegal's vision that the five ships she had seen and that woke her up, were well being distanced by their rapid flight. No sounds were emitted, only looks of contemplation were given. The last words they had exchanged, the promise of enlightenment and bonding, still on both of their minds. Rhaenys only hoped that the youngest living Targaryen will be willing to listen, calmly.

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So, what did you think? Did you like this 100% female Targaryen chapter?

As always, please feel free to point out grammatical or spelling errors, inaccuracies, by the way of reviews. Also, review too to simply let me know about your feelings about the new chapter, or if any question arises in your mind! (I do my best to always reply!)

See you very soon!


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